This time
Mrs. Merillia did not hear him. She had indeed become absorbed in a new
romance, written by a very rising young Montenegrin who was just then
making some stir in the literary circles of the elect.
Very surreptitiously the Prophet tripped across the hall and reached
the stout door which gave access to the servants' quarters. But here he
paused. Although he had lived in Mrs. Merillia's most comfortable home
for at least fifteen years, he had actually never once penetrated
beyond this door. It had never occurred to him to do so. Often he had
approached it. Quite recently, when Mrs. Fancy Quinglet had broken
into tears on the refusal of Sir Tiglath Butt to burst according to
her prediction, he had handed her to this very portal. But he had never
passed through it, nor did he know what lay beyond. No doubt there was
a kitchen, very probably the mysterious region of watery activities
commonly known as a scullery, quite certainly a butler's pantry. But
where each separate sanctum lay, and what should be the physiognomy of
each one the Prophet had not the vaguest idea. As he turned the handle
of the door he felt like Sir Henry Stanley, when that intrepid explorer
first set foot among the leafy habitations of the dwarfs.
Pages:
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171