"I don't see, in any case, what it's got to do with you," I said, "but,
as a matter of fact, she isn't."
"Isn't what?" he said, stopping short and turning on me.
"Isn't going to marry him," I answered.
"Why not?" he demanded.
"Better ask her," I suggested.
I didn't know at the time that it was a silly thing to say, and I am
not sure that I should not have said it if I had. When he is in one of
his moods I always seem to get into one of mine. I have looked after
Mr. John ever since he was a baby, so that we do not either of us treat
the other quite as perhaps we ought to.
"Tell cook I want her," he said.
"She is just in the middle--" I began.
"I don't care where she is," he said. He seemed determined never to
let me finish a sentence. "Send her up here."
She was in the kitchen by herself.
"He wants to see you at once," I said.
"Who does?" she asked.
"Mr. John," I said.
"What's he want to see me for?" she asked.
"How do I know?" I answered.
"But you do," she said. She always had an obstinate twist in her, and,
feeling it would save time, I told her what had happened.
"Well," I said, "aren't you going?"
She was standing stock still staring at the pastry she was making. She
turned to me, and there was a curious smile about her lips.
"Do you know what you ought to be wearing?" she said. "Wings, and a
little bow and arrow."
She didn't even think to wipe her hands, but went straight upstairs. It
was about half an hour later when the bell rang. Mr. John was standing
by the window.
"Is that bag ready?" he said.
"It will be," I said.