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Mr. John came up by the car, and I could see he was in one of his moods.

“Pack me some things for a walking tour,” he said. “Don’t forget the knapsack. I am going to Scotland by the eight-thirty.”

“Will you be away long?” I asked him.

“It depends upon how long it takes me,” he answered. “When I come back I am going to be married.”

“Who is the lady?” I asked, though, of course, I knew.

“Miss Bulstrode,” he said.

“Well,” I said, “she–“

“That will do,” he said; “I have had all that from the three of them for the last two days. She is a Socialist, and a Suffragist, and all the rest of it, and my ideal helpmate. She is well off, and that will enable me to devote all my time to putting the world to rights without bothering about anything else. Our home will be the nursery of advanced ideas. We shall share together the joys and delights of the public platform. What more can any man want?”

“You will want your dinner early,” I said, “if you are going by the eight-thirty. I had better tell cook–“

He interrupted me again.

“You can tell cook to go to the devil,” he said.

I naturally stared at him.

“She is going to marry a beastly little rotter of a rent collector that she doesn’t care a damn for,” he went on.

I could not understand why he seemed so mad about it.

“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.

I went out into the hall and returned with the clothes brush.

“What are you going to do?” he said.

“Perhaps you don’t know it,” I said, “but you are all over flour.”

“Cook’s going with me to Scotland,” he said.

I have looked after Mr. John ever since he was a boy. He was forty-two last birthday, but when I shook hands with him through the cab window I could have sworn he was twenty-five again.