"I didn't, Mem," replied Parker respectfully, and evidently quite willing to understand anything as part of her duty in this world.
"In fact," said Mrs. Bunting, rubbing the edge of the tablecloth daintily with her gloved finger and watching the operation with interest, "as a matter of fact, she has a mermaid's tail."
"Mermaid's tail! Indeed, Mem! And is it painful at all?"
"Oh, dear, no, it involves no inconvenience—nothing. Except—you understand, there is a need of—discretion."
"Of course, Mem," said Parker, as who should say, "there always is."
"We particularly don't want the servants———"
"The lower servants— No, Mem."
"You understand?" and Mrs. Bunting looked up again and regarded Parker calmly.
"Precisely, Mem!" said Parker, with a face unmoved, and so they came to the question of terms. "It all passed off most satisfactorily," said Mrs. Bunting, taking a deep breath at the mere memory of that moment. And it is clear that Parker was quite of her opinion.
She was not only discreet but really clever and handy. From the very outset she grasped the situation, unostentatiously but very firmly. It was Parker who contrived the sort of violin case for It, and who made the tea gown extension that covered the case's arid contours. It was Parker who suggested an invalid's chair for use indoors and in the garden, and a carrying chair for the staircase. Hitherto Fred Bunting had been on hand, at last even in
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