the wages. She'd be lavin' that day week, her month bein' up then."

Happily, the threatening of illness was a false alarm, but Katy is
going. The city is filling up, and many "best families" must re-open
their town-houses in time for the school terms. She looks as happy at
the prospect of a return to area-gossip and Sunday flirtation as I
feel at getting rid of her. I have made with her a farewell round of
pantries, refrigerator, and cellar. Valuable articles are
missing--notably two solid silver tablespoons and a dozen fine
napkins. At the back of the barn a pile of brushwood masks a Monte
Testaccio of china and cut-glass. Dirt is in every corner;
glass-towels have been degraded into dish and floor-cloths; saucepans
are burned into holes; tops are lacking to pots and pails.

For all this there is no redress. When I made a stand upon the "case
of spoons," as being old family silver, the housemaid declared that
Katy had used them often to stir soup and porridge, and Katy retorted
with gusts of brine and brogue that she "wouldn't be accountable for
things that didn't belong to her business."

Altogether, my amiable willingness that she should take her leave
without shaking more dust from her feet upon an already burdened
household, had become impatient desire by the time I counted out her
wages. Yet, here she stands, grim as the sphinx, fixed as Fate, with
the inexorable requisition, "Me refrunce, mum!"

"What could I say of you Katy?" I ask, miserably.

"What any leddy whatsomever, as _is_ a leddy, would say! What lots o'
other leddies, as leddylike as enny leddy could wish to be, ridin' in