“And I changed the calendar, too.”

“Never mind. There’s the genuine article, look. Under your serviette.”

“Napkin,” Alfred said. He had been in Mr. Period’s service for ten years. “I don’t know if you’re aware of the fact,” he added, taking the top off his egg, “but April Fool’s Day goes back to pagan times, Mrs. Mitchell.”

“Fancy! With your attainments, I often wonder you don’t look elsewhere for employment.”

“You might say I lack ambition.” Alfred paused, his spoon halfway to his mouth. “The truth of the matter is,” he added, “I like service. Given favourable circumstances, it suits me. And the circumstances here are — or were — very nice.”

A telephone rang distantly. “I’ll answer it,” Mrs. Mitchell offered. “You take your breakfast in peace.”

She went out. Alfred opened his second egg and his Daily Mail and was immersed in both when she returned.

“Miss Cartell,” she said.

“Oh?”

“Asking for her brother. ’Oh,’ she says. ’Mrs. Mitchell!’ she says. ‘Just the person I wanted to have a word with!’ You know her way. Bluff, but doing the gracious.”

Alfred nodded slightly.

“And she says, ‘I want you,’ she says, ‘before I say anything to my brother, to tell me, absolutely frankly,’ she says, ‘between you and me and the larder shelf, if you think the kweezeen would stand two more for lunch.’ Well!”

“To whom was she referring?”

“To that Miss Moppett and a friend. A gentleman friend, you may depend upon it. Well! Asking me! As far as the kweezeen is concerned, a nice curry can be stretched, as you know yourself, Mr. Belt, to ridiculous lengths.”

“What did you say?”

“ ‘I’m sure, Miss,’ I says — just like that! Straight out! ‘My kitchen,’ I says, ‘has never been found wanting in a crisis,’ I says. And with that I switched her up to his room.”

“Mr. Period,” Alfred said, “will not be pleased.”