And tell Marie I shan't want her
after all.'
Lady Conroy leant back against her cushions and with a sigh went on:
'You see, I'm in the most terrible muddle, dear Edith. I don't know
where to turn.'
She turned to her writing-table and opened it.
'Look at this, now,' she said rather triumphantly. 'This is all about my
war work. Oh no, it isn't. It's an advertisement from a washer-woman.
Gracious, ought I to keep it, do you think? No, I don't think I need.'
She folded it up and put it carefully away again.
'Don't you think yourself I need someone?'
'Yes, I do. I think it would be very convenient for you to have a nice
girl with a good memory to keep your things in order.'
'That's it,' cried Lady Conroy, delighted, as she lit a cigarette.
'That's it--someone who will prevent me dropping cigarette ash all over
the room and remember my engagements and help me with my war work and
write my letters and do the telephoning. That's all I shall want. Of
course, if she could do a little needlework--No, no, that wouldn't do.
You couldn't expect her to do brainwork as well as needlework.'
Edith broke in.
'Do you remember mentioning to me a girl you met at Boulogne--a nurse
called Dulcie Clay?'
'Perfectly well,' answered Lady Conroy, puffing away at her cigarette,
and obviously not speaking the truth.
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