' He scrutinized the ceiling with a dull eye. 'Whereupon,'
he continued, 'he seized her tail and threw her with considerable
force. He then removed himself to the sink and began to hurl eggs
at the scullery-maid.'
Lady Wetherby's mental eye attempted to produce a picture of the
scene, but failed.
'I suppose I had better go down and see about it,' she said.
Wrench withdrew his gaze from the ceiling.
'I think it would be advisable, m'lady. The scullery-maid is
already in hysterics.'
Lady Wetherby led the way to the kitchen. She was wroth with
Eustace. This was just the sort of thing out of which Algie would
be able to make unlimited capital. It weakened her position with
Algie. There was only one thing to do--she must hush it up.
Her first glance, however, at the actual theatre of war gave her
the impression that matters had advanced beyond the hushing-up
stage. A yellow desolation brooded over the kitchen. It was not so
much a kitchen as an omelette. There were eggs everywhere, from
floor to ceiling. She crunched her way in on a carpet of oozing
shells.
Her entry was a signal for a renewal on a more impressive scale of
the uproar that she had heard while opening the door. The air was
full of voices. The cook was expressing herself in Norwegian, the
parlour-maid in what appeared to be Erse.
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