The strange countess

Lois Margeritta Reddle sat on the edge of her bed, a thick and heavy cup of pallid tea in one hand, a letter in the other. The tea was too sweet, the bread was cut generously even as it was buttered economically, but she was so completely absorbed in the letter that she forgot the weakness of Lizzy Smith as a caterer.

The note was headed with a gilt crest and the paper was thick and slightly perfumed.

307 Chester Square, S.W.

The Countess of Moron is pleased to learn that Miss Reddle will take up her duties as resident secretary on Monday, the 17th. Miss Reddle is assured of a comfortable position, with ample opportunities for recreation.

The door was thrust open and the red and shining face of Lizzy was thrust in.

“Bathroom’s empty,” she said briefly. “Better take your own soap--you can see through the bit that’s left. There’s one dry towel and one half-dry. What’s the letter?”

“It is from my countess--I start on Monday.”

Lizzy pulled a wry face.

“Sleep in, of course? That means I’ve got to get somebody to share these digs. Last girl who slept here snored. I will say one thing about you, Lois, you don’t snore.”

Lois’ eyes twinkled, the sensitive mouth curved for a second in the ghost of a smile.

“Well, you can’t say that I haven’t looked after you,” said Lizzy with satisfaction. “I’m the best manager you’ve ever roomed with, I’ll bet. I’ve done the shopping and cooked and everything--you’ll admit that?”

Lois slipped her arm round the girl and kissed her homely face.

“You’ve been a darling,” she said, “and in many ways I’m sorry I’m going. But, Lizzy, I’ve tried hard to move on all my life. From the National School in Leeds to that little cash desk at Roopers, and from Roopers to the Drug Stores, and then to the great lawyers----”

“Great!” exclaimed the scornful Lizzy. “Old Shaddles great! Why, the mean old devil wouldn’t give me a half-crown raise at Christmas, and I’ve been punching the alphabet five years for him! Kid, you’ll marry into society. That countess is a she-dragon, but she’s rich, and you’re sure to meet swells--go and have your annual while I fry the eggs. Is it going to rain?”

Lois was rubbing her white, rounded arm, gingerly passing her palm over the pink, star-shaped scar just above her elbow. It was Lizzy’s faith that whenever the scar irritated, rain was in the offing.

“You’ll have to have that electrocuted, or whatever the word is,” said the snub-nosed girl when the other shook her head. “Sleeves are about as fashionable nowadays as crinolines.”

From the bathroom Lois heard her companion bustling about the little kitchen, and, mingled with the splutter and crackle of frying eggs, came shrilly the sound of the newest fox-trot as Lizzy whistled it unerringly.

They had shared the third floor in Charlotte Street since the day she had come to London. Lois was an orphan; she could not remember her father, who had died when she was little more than a baby, and only dimly recalled the pleasant, matronly woman who had fussed over her in the rough and humble days of her early schooling. She had passed to the care of a vague aunt who was interested in nothing except the many diseases from which she imagined she suffered. And then the aunt had died, despite her arrays of medicine bottles, or possibly because of them, and Lois had gone into her first lodging.