“You must surpass yourself tonight, Richardson,” she said complacently to her maid; “I must be looking my very best. We must all surpass ourselves.”

The maid said nothing, but from the concentrated look in her eyes and the deft play of her fingers it was evident that she was beset with the ambition to surpass herself.

A knock came at the door, a quiet but peremptory knock, as of someone who would not be denied.

“Go and see who it is,” said Sophie; “it may be something about the wine.”

Richardson held a hurried conference with an invisible messenger at the door; when she returned there was noticeable a curious listlessness in place of her hitherto alert manner.

“What is it?” asked Sophie.

“The household servants have ‘downed tools,’ madame,” said Richardson.