Laura Richards
Honor Bright

“Look, Maria! what a strange-looking old lady! Isn’t she beautiful? She is looking at us, so don’t stare, but just glance as you go by!”

Maria did not even glance. “I don’t care!” she said, “and how can an old lady be beautiful, anyhow? I don’t dare about anything; I wish I were dead!”

“That,” said Honor, “is wicked! You are a goose, Maria, but there is no need of your being wicked, and you shan’t, either. And old ladies are some of the most beautiful in the world, when they are beautiful! Look at our Sister!”

Soeur Séraphine was thirty-three, to be precise; but fourteen takes little count of degrees in age.

A wretched afternoon. A wretched evening, Maria’s forlorn face casting a gloom over the pleasant reading hour, a gloom only accentuated by Honor’s flame of anger, which still burned brightly. Soeur Séraphine, reading aloud peacefully, looked benignantly over the top of her “Télémaque,” and felt that a crisis was approaching. These dear children! By to-morrow all would clear itself, and they would be themselves once more. But for this poor Maria, and our Moriole, it was indeed desolating; nor was Stephanie less unhappy. A special prayer must be offered for these three.

Bedtime came. The girls separated without the usual merry chirping over their lighted candles. Honor, after a brief but energetic effort to make Maria “cheer up,” gave it up in despair for the moment, and hurried to bed, thereby saving five minutes of the allotted fifteen, of which half was usually spent in happy fluttering and twittering from room to room. Placing her candle on the little bedside table, she drew from under her mattress a square leather-bound volume, and settling herself among the pillows, began to write hurriedly.

“My young life was full of sorrows. Treacherous friends deserted me because I just tried to behave decently. My cheek grew pale and thin, but my spirit was undaunted. My tears flowed like a crystal fountain – ” Here Honor blinked hard and thought she did perhaps feel something like a tear in one eye – “My silken pillow was wet with them. The poor thing I tried to rescue was no help at all, but of course that made no difference, and I spurned the others from me with flashing eye and regal gesture. One of them was my bosom friend. I never thought she would desert me —

“Who’s there? Maria? Come in! Anybody else, stay out!”

But Stephanie was already in: Stephanie was flinging herself on Honor’s neck, weeping, begging for forgiveness.

“Moriole darling! Speak to me! look at me! Do be friends! Won’t you, Moriole? I can’t bear it without you!”

Did Honor spurn her with flashing eye and regal gesture? No! she hugged her close, and they cried together, and kissed and “made up” like the affectionate creatures they were.

“But – but you forgive Maria?” cried Honor. “You’ll take her back, Stephanie? You can’t have me without her!”

“I’ll take twenty Marias!” whispered Stephanie, “to get back my own, own Moriole!”

Ting! ting! went the bell. Lights out! One parting hug; off flew Stephanie; back went the book under the mattress; out went the candle. Honor nestled down in bed with a warm heart, for the first time since leaving the Châlet.

“Thank you, Matthew, Mark, Luke and John!” she murmured. “You have blessed the bed that I lie on!” and she fell happily asleep, to dream of the Twins and Zitli.

Never yet in all her peaceful years had Honor had two broken nights in succession; but there is a first time for everything.

Late in this second night she was again waked suddenly; not by sobbing this time: not by any noise; all was still. What was it, then? Why was she sitting up in bed, frightened? She sniffed: a strange smell was in her nostrils: acrid, pungent – fire? She was springing out of bed, when she heard some one enter the next room hurriedly; heard a smothered cry; heard the window flung violently open; heard her own name called, low but urgently.

“Honor! Honor! come!”

Honor flew, to find the strange odor pouring out of Maria’s room; to see, by the moonlight which flooded it, Maria lying apparently unconscious, and bending over her, dragging her from the bed – Patricia!

“Help me get her to the window!” said Patricia briefly. “So! Now call the Sister, and get my salts! Quick!”

Again Honor flew, down the corridor, at the end of which a light glanced from the crack under Soeur Séraphine’s door. The little Sister, kneeling at her prie-Dieu, turned as the door opened. Her eyes widened at sight of Honor’s horrified face; her delicate nostrils expanded as the pungent odor crept into them; all this Honor saw afterwards. It seemed hardly a breathing-space before the Sister had flashed past her, flashed down the corridor, and had Maria in her arms by the open window, while Patricia knelt beside her with the salts. A pure cool breeze blew into the room, driving out the choking vapor. A few anxious moments, a convulsive movement, a quiver of the eyelids: Maria opened her eyes, and looked feebly about her.

“Let us thank the merciful Lord and the blessed saints!” said Soeur Séraphine. “My child, behold you restored to us! How do you find yourself?”

“Oh, dear!” said Maria. “Am I not dead? oh, dear!”

At this moment she caught sight of Patricia’s pale face close beside her. She shrank back with a cry.

“Why couldn’t you let me die?” she cried. “Don’t – don’t laugh at me, Patricia! Please go away, and let me die!”

Patricia was about to speak, but Soeur Séraphine signed to her to be silent.

“A little later!” she murmured. “Go now, my child! Thou also, Honor; return in ten minutes.”

As they turned to go, a piece of paper blew off the table and fell at Patricia’s feet. She picked it up mechanically, and saw her own name on it. The two girls passed into Patricia’s room, which was on the other side of Maria’s. Patricia lighted her candle, and read,

“Patricia, it is true, what I told Honor. I did not mean to steal the ring. Please take Honor back. I will not disgrace her when she was so good to me.

“Maria Patterson.”

“Oh, Patricia!” cried Honor. “What – what did she do? What was that dreadful smell? Patricia! you are white as a sheet! Are you going to faint? Don’t – don’t cry, my dear!”

“I am not crying!” Patricia wiped two large tears from her cheeks. “What did she do? She tried to kill herself. If it had not been for you, I should have been a murderess!”

“Patricia, don’t say such dreadful things! And what have I to do with it?”

“You kept me from going to sleep!” said Patricia curtly. “You little thing – ” Patricia laid her hands on Honor’s shoulders, and held her at arm’s length a moment. “You little thing!” she repeated. “You have saved me, as well as Maria!”

“Oh, Patricia!” faltered Honor, her own eyes bright with tears. “What was it? was it poison?”

“Charcoal! The poor creature must have taken some from Margoton’s brazier. Mercifully she didn’t know enough to stop up the keyhole between her room and mine. I smelt it, and then I saw a thin blue thread come creeping through the keyhole; and then – all in a minute I knew! Hark! the Sister calls us. Honor, I can’t talk about it, but I never shall forget this night!”

Honor was almost awe-stricken as Patricia pressed a warm kiss on her cheek; Patricia, who never kissed any one. She returned the caress shyly, but tenderly, and hand in hand the two entered Maria’s room.

Soeur Séraphine’s lovely face was more nearly stern than they had ever seen it. She was sitting on the bed, Maria’s hand in hers. She addressed the two girls gravely.

“Here we have,” she said, “one who has sinned and repented. Her first sin was not grievous, as it appears to me; her repentance was deep and sincere, but it has not been accepted – save by thee, my little Honor! Thy part in this affair has been all that I could wish. Patricia, of thee I would ask, art thou entirely without sin thyself?”

“No, my Sister!” Patricia’s voice was low, her eyes were bent on the floor.

“Thou art right. Pride, vain glory, envy – no, perhaps not that!” as Patricia made an involuntary movement; “hatred, malice and all uncharitableness. Of these thou hast been guilty; is it not so, my child?”

“Yes, my Sister!”

“Dost thou repent of these thy sins? Are they hateful in thine eyes?”

“Oh, yes! yes!”

Soeur Séraphine’s face softened; her eyes shone with their own kind light. She said no word, but with a lovely gesture held out Maria’s hand. Patricia clasped it, and knelt down by the bedside.

“Maria,” she said, in a low, stifled voice, “I have been wicked and hateful, and I beg your pardon!”

“Oh, don’t, Patricia!” gasped Maria. “Oh, please don’t! I – of course it was horrid of me; of course you thought – oh, do get up, Patricia! Oh, of course I forgive you, if you forgive me!”

“So!” The Sister raised Patricia, and seated her beside her. “That is well. Now you are friends once more, and that part of this sad matter may be forgotten. For her second and far more grievous sin, that of attempting to renounce the gift of life given her by the good God, Maria is deeply repentant; is it not so, my child?”

“Oh, yes!” murmured Maria, clasping her hands over her face. “I don’t see how I could have done it!”

“Fitting penance will be devised for thee!” the Sister went on serenely. “Thou preferest to leave it to me and Madame, and it is well. For thee, Patricia; wouldst thou prefer to choose thine own penance, or shall we devise one for thee also?”

“I think – ” Patricia spoke slowly, but with something of her usual assured tone: “I think, my Sister, that I will go to Coventry myself!”

“Go to – Cov – what is that, my child? A city of England, is it not? We could not permit – ”

Patricia hastened to explain.

“Sending a person to Coventry means – not speaking to her, not having anything to do with her. We – I – sent Maria to Coventry, and made all the other girls do it – except Honor! she wouldn’t! Now I will go myself, for a week. I will not speak to anybody, and nobody shall speak to me. Will that do, my Sister?”

“Oh, Patricia!” cried Honor and Maria in one breath. “You shall not! You must not!”

But Soeur Séraphine nodded approval.

“The idea,” she said, “appears to me admirable!”

CHAPTER XIV
THE STRANGE OLD LADY

Patricia performed her penance faithfully. At her request, Soeur Séraphine explained matters briefly to the girls next morning; so far, that is to say, as she considered explanation desirable. Patricia, she told them, had become convinced that she had been unjust to Maria, and had taken upon herself the punishment which she and they had inflicted upon that imprudent but well-meaning young person. For the space of a week, they would hold no communication with Patricia, nor she with them: Madame approving this entirely. After that time, their happy relations with one another would be resumed, and never again, the Sister trusted, would their clear horizon be clouded in such manner. The girls were to remark that a little folly, arousing the evil passions of our sinful nature, had brought about this sad state of affairs. Let them pray without ceasing for truth, courage and kindness, since these three formed the tripod on which humanity must stand. Dismissed!

As the girls left the classroom, Patricia, who was standing at the door, shook hands with each of them, as if taking leave. She did not speak, nor did any one dare speak to her. Her face was grave, but the scornful look was gone; the insolence of her beauty was veiled, as it were, by a thoughtful, almost a sorrowful look. She gave Honor a lovely smile; Honor’s arms were open in an instant to embrace her, but Patricia shook her head, and laid her finger on her lips.

“I don’t see how I can!” said Honor to herself, as she passed out, “but I must!” she added, “and so I will!”

This sensible resolve she communicated to the other girls, as they clustered round her under the trumpet vine. Patricia was walking by herself at the other end of the garden, pacing up and down in a sober, business-like way.

“How can we?” cried one and another. “Maria made no difference one way or another: but Patricia – it will be like losing you over again, Moriole!”

“We just plain have to!” said Honor stoutly. “That’s all there is about it. And mind you be good to Maria, girls! It’s the least you can do, after treating her so horribly. Poor thing! she is really sick this morning, so our Sister made her stay in bed; but she will be down to dinner, and I say, let’s all try to make her forget about it.”

All agreed, though without any special enthusiasm. They were ashamed of the part they had played, but after all, Maria was Maria.

“Tiens, la Moriole!” It was Jacqueline de la Tour de Provence who spoke, in her languid, graceful drawl. “Why this sudden interest in Maria, – for thee, I mean? Thou hast never shown it before. She is bourgeoise to a degree! She cannot belong to even the lowest order of noblesse!”

“We are Americans!” said Honor shortly. “We have no noblesse. And if we had – how about noblesse oblige, Jacqueline?”

Jacqueline blushed slightly, and murmured something about her House; but it was noticed that she was moderately civil to Maria, when the latter, still depressed, and sniffing at intervals, appeared at dinner.

“But, Maria,” cried Honor, dragging her into a corner after dinner, “you simply must buck up! You can’t go round cringing and sniffing like – like a poodle that’s just been shaved! Hold up your head! Look them in the eye! Show them that you are as good as they are!”

“But I am not!” said poor Maria, who did seem to be made of putty, as Patricia once said, and poor putty at that.

“You are! a great deal better than some of them. Buck up, I tell you!”

“Bokope!” Soeur Séraphine, passing, paused with a smile of inquiry. “Eet ees to me a word wholly new, la Moriole. It means – vat, for example?”

Honor colored hotly, and hung her head.

“It’s – it’s argot, my Sister!” she confessed meekly. “Slang, you know, we call it. It means to – to collect oneself – to – to take a brace – oh, dear! that’s slang too! I’m afraid ‘buck up’ is really what it does mean, my Sister. Papa used to say it!” she added timidly.

The little Sister glowed sympathetic.

“Tiens! If thy honored father used the expression, it is without doubt a valuable one. Bokope! it is to remember, that!”

She passed on, leaving Honor struggling between amusement and remorse.

The days passed quickly, as days do; they missed Patricia woefully. Even Stephanie confessed to missing her, though she declared, pacing the Garden, arm in arm with her newly-recovered Moriole, that this was nothing compared with the desolation of last week.

“Patricia has behaved nobly, I grant that!” she said. “I forgive her much, even her pride, which is insufferable. But to have thee back, my cherished one, that makes to bound the heart; I could better do without all than to lose thee, my Moriole!”

Was Stephanie always so sentimental? Had she herself been so, before she went to the Châlet? Honor wondered; then she fell to wondering what they were all doing up there. It was four o’clock. The goats would be coming home soon. Perhaps Big Pierre was there, courting Gretli. In that case Zitli would be in his own nook behind the garden, sitting alone, looking at the mountain, thinking perhaps a little of his friend. She must write to them to-night. She had already written once, but Zitli said letters were a rare treat, and she loved to write them.

“Look, Honor! that old lady again who regards thee. My faith, but her eyes devour thee. One would say she was hungry, not so?”

Honor looked up, to find a pair of bright dark eyes fixed on her with singular intentness. They belonged to a lady whom the girls had seen several times of late in the Garden; an old lady, richly dressed, who sometimes drove slowly in a victoria, sometimes, as to-day, sat on a garden chair under the trees. She was accompanied by a trim, rosy little person, who might be nurse, companion or courier. She seemed interested in all the girls, but specially in Honor, whose looks and motions she studied openly and deliberately.

To-day, after a prolonged look which yet was not a stare, she said a few words to her companion, who stepped forward and in turn addressed Soeur Séraphine, who was shepherding her little flock. The Sister looked up in surprise; glanced toward the lady on the garden chair; then hastily adjuring the girls to be extremely sage and to observe well the beauties of Nature, she advanced with an air of respectful interest toward the old lady, who, with a civil nod, beckoned her to a seat beside her. The nurse, companion or courier retired to a discreet distance. The girls, devoured by curiosity, paid scant attention to the beauties of nature.

“Stephanie, you must not stare!” whispered Honor. “Look at that swan; he is pecking the young one as hard as he can.”

Stephanie glanced anxiously at the swan. “They are savage creatures!” she said. “A swan once pecked my grandmother, tearing large portions of flesh from her bones. It was a frightful thing; she turned black with terror. Observe her dress, Moriole! It is richness itself, though sombre, and in distinguished taste.”

“Your grandmother’s? Or the swan’s?” Honor laughed.

“A squirrel! a squirrel!” cried little Loulou. “Where are the nuts, Vivette?”

Squirrel and nuts made a brief diversion, but it was hard not to glance more often than one should at the couple on the garden chairs. They were talking earnestly; the Sister with her pretty, fluttering gestures, the other with an occasional wave of a delicate ringed hand, or an emphatic nod. Finally – oh, wonder! oh, thrill upon thrill! – the Sister rose and beckoned – to whom? Jacqueline de la Tour de Provence rose with dignity, and was gliding forward, swanlike, when the Sister’s voice was heard, silver clear.

“Honor! Approach, my child!”

Jacqueline drew back with an air of elaborate unconcern. Honor, with a deprecating glance at her, and a round-eyed flash at Stephanie, advanced timidly.

“Honor, my little one,” the Sister’s voice trembled; “that I present thee to Madame – ”

“Mrs. Damian!” The lady spoke in an odd, abrupt tone. “How do you do, child? Your grandfather Bright was my first cousin; you are therefore my second cousin once removed. Sit down! If you open your eyes too wide, they might drop out. I asked you how you did!”

Honor blinked and sat down hastily, trembling and amazed.

“I am very well, I thank you, madame!” she answered. “I trust your distinguished health is also good.”

“My distinguished health is as good as can be expected, I thank you!” with an amused twinkle. “Your name is Honor? So is mine! There is always an Honor in the family. You never heard your father speak of me, I suppose? No! how should you? I haven’t seen him for twenty years. He was a nice boy then. Well! you wonder what sky I have dropped from, eh? I heard of your parents’ death a year or more ago; I was in Russia at the time. I am a traveler, child; I have been traveling for many years. I was in Russia, and since then I have been in the East. I have always meant to look you up; I wrote your guardian, Mr. Stanford, that I would. You have never seen Mr. Stanford?”

Honor shook her head. “He writes to Madame,” she said. “Twice a year he writes, to make inquiry for me, and to send money; he comes never.”

“Busy man! You’ll see him – ” Mrs. Damian spoke in short, abrupt sentences, each one punctuated with a nod. The last sentence remained unfinished, and she nodded twice.

“Folly!” she spoke over her shoulder, and the rosy person approached. “This is the little cousin! Honor, this is Miss Folly, who keeps me alive. A ridiculous fuss she makes about it, too. What now, Folly? Why do you look at me?”

“It’s time to come home, Mrs. Damian!” Miss Folly spoke in a cheerful, cordial voice which struck Honor’s ear like music. “Shall I call the carriage?”

“Do so! Honor, your teacher gives you permission to take supper with me at the hotel this evening. Will you come?”

Honor faltered her thanks; with great pleasure would she do herself the honor —

“That’s good! Miss Folly will come for you at a quarter before six. Au revoir, child!”

She nodded dismissal. Honor’s head was spinning; her heart was beating fast; but she made her best courtesy, and murmuring, “Au revoir, madame! Au plaisir, mademoiselle!” she turned and scurried away toward the group of girls, who, at the further end of the Gardens, were turning eager heads in her direction. On the way, she caught sight of Patricia, taking her solitary walk in a shady by-path, and stopped short, her heart beating louder than ever. She could not – how could she pass Patricia without a word?

A squirrel was hopping along the path, expectant of nuts.

“Squirrel!” cried Honor. The squirrel stopped; Patricia turned, saw her, and stopped too. “Give my love to Patricia!” Honor addressed Master Frisky, breathlessly. “Tell her we miss her dreadfully! And – squirrel – tell her I am going to supper at the hotel with my grandfather’s cousin, Mrs. Damian, who has been in Russia. Tell her it’s that beautiful old lady we saw the other day. That’s all!” and kissing her hand – but not to the squirrel – Honor ran on.

The girls surged round her like a wave; questions flew like spray. What? Who? Why? How? She was explaining as well as she could, when Miss Folly appeared, very bright-eyed, a little out of breath from walking quickly.

“Excuse me!” she said with a smile, as the girls drew back in confusion. “Miss Honor, Mrs. Damian asks what you like best to eat.”

Honor fairly gasped. “Oh! oh, mademoiselle, it is of no import! Anything that Madame – ”

Miss Folly dismissed the remark with a gesture. “What do you like best?” she repeated. “Mrs. Damian wishes to know.”

“Oh! oh, dear! ice-cream!” faltered Honor.

Miss Folly smiled again. “That, naturally! but before ice-cream?”

“Oh! Oh, must I? Broiled chicken! I thank madame most respectuously – ”

Miss Folly nodded cheerfully, and departed. Nine pairs of eyes, opened to their roundest extent, gazed at one another. Then Honor held out her arm, solemnly.

“Pinch me, Stephanie!” she said. “Quite hard, please – ow! that will do. Because if I am not asleep and dreaming, then we are all in a fairy story, that’s all.”

Still more fairy-like it seemed when at a quarter before six o’clock, punctually, Miss Folly appeared, like a matter-of-fact fairy godmother, and whisked Honor off in the victoria with the long-tailed black horses, the very carriage in which —hélas! poor pretty Maman and kind Papa used to take her on those long drives. There had been a solemn consultation over Honor’s dress for the occasion. She felt in her heart that black velvet, with a long train and point lace flounces, was the fitting attire. Diamonds, of course; her superb dark tresses woven into a stately coronal (she had just discovered “coronal,” and thought it a beautiful word) with a single ostrich plume, snowy white, curling above it. These decorations not being at hand, she turned her mind with a sigh to the actual choice, the dark blue cashmere with crochet buttons, or the white embroidered muslin, Maman’s last gift, now let down to its fullest extent; a trifle short in the sleeves, but still “all that there was of most gracious!” Soeur Séraphine declared. Madame was rather in favor of the cashmere; it was more composed, she said; more sedate, and wholly suitable. Stephanie, who assisted at the conference, affectionately pressed upon Honor her own best dress, the red silk with black velvet ribbon. Soeur Séraphine suppressed a shudder, and promptly decided on the white, for which Honor thanked her with an eloquent glance. It was darling of Stephanie, but – and, besides, Maman had told her never to wear red or pink; “Unless, when you are forty, my darling, a deep red velvet; your hair will be darker by then, and it will suit your tint.”

Honor did not feel as if she would ever be forty; why not four hundred at once? But she knew that this infliction of her hair could be made better or worse by her choice of colors. She gladly put on the white dress, and was pondering the question of a sash, when she heard a light step in the corridor; then a soft rustle as of silk; a touch on the handle of the door, and the step retreating again. She flew to the door and opened it, to see the last flutter of a skirt disappearing, and hanging on the doorhandle – Patricia’s beautiful new sash of pale-green brocaded ribbon, with the shoulder-knots to match.

“Oh, my Sister, see!” cried Honor, the tears springing to her eyes. “See what Patricia has done! her very best sash! Oh, mayn’t I just run and give her a hug for thanks?”

“On no account!” The Sister’s face was shining with pleasure. “Our dear Patricia is making her salvation with assured steps; let no one cause her to stumble! Be tranquil, my child, that I arrange for thee this charming garniture! It completes to perfection a costume wholly jeune fille!”

In the little, richly gilt private salon of the hotel, Mrs. Damian received Honor with abrupt cordiality. She wore the costume of Honor’s dreams, minus the flounces and the ostrich plume. Her dark eyes were as bright as her diamonds, Honor thought, and the rich velvet set off her ivory skin and delicate high-bred features to perfection. As to the point lace, it was gathered in graceful folds at her throat, and crowned her snowy hair in a quaint and charming cap. Altogether, Honor thought her one of the most beautiful things she had ever seen. Admiration was evidently no new thing to Mrs. Damian, but it as evidently gave her pleasure; she smiled as Honor made her pretty reverence, and held out her fragile hand.

“You are prompt!” she said. “That is good! You have been taught not to waste other people’s time. There is not time enough in the world to go round, and yet – ring the bell, will you, Folly? – people waste it – or steal it – as if it were water. Do you understand?”

Honor started at the sudden question, which was like the swoop of a hawk.

“Not – not altogether, madame!” she faltered. “To waste time; we are taught that that is at once foolish and sinful; to steal – how then?”

“Listen! If you waste your own time, that is your own affair. If you had been half or even a quarter of an hour late, you would have wasted my time. It does not belong to you; therefore you steal it! Do you see?”

“I see, madame!” Honor glanced thankfully at the little gilt clock on the mantel, which had struck six as she entered the room. Miss Folly had kept her waiting in the ante-room five minutes before ushering her in; she wondered why. Was that —

“To come too early,” Mrs. Damian continued, with her abrupt nod, “is no better. In that case also it is my time you take. If I had wanted you at half-past five, I should have said so. Do you see?”

She swooped again.

“Yes, madame!” murmured Honor, this time with a grateful glance at Miss Folly, who gave her an enigmatic smile and poked the fire.

“I allowed five minutes for arrival and reception; it is now – ah! on the moment, here comes supper!”

Such a wonderful supper! The dishes were white and gold, like the salon; the broiled chicken, the fried potatoes, the crisp rolls, all showed various tints of brownish gold. Mrs. Damian watched with keen eyes as Honor ate, with the wholesome appetite of vigorous girlhood, yet with the delicate nicety which was part of the education at Pension Madeleine. She herself supped on a cup of soup and a roll; but it was a gold cup, and the soup looked very good. She talked easily, telling of her recent travels; now and then asking a question in her odd, pouncing way, but mostly, it seemed, content to watch the child and enjoy her enjoyment.

“I wonder how you would like a Japanese dinner, Honor! I was in Japan last winter, and I dined several times with a friend of mine. We sat on mats on the floor – but yes!” as Honor raised wide eyes of astonishment – “there is nothing else to sit on in my friend’s house; she does not care for European customs. My table was like your doll’s table, about ten inches high. I wore Japanese dress, for I was expected to carry food away – but yes! in my sleeves. Eat your supper, child, and don’t open your eyes too wide; as I said before, they might drop out. The sleeves are very wide – a kimono, in short – and have large pockets in them, lined with something easily cleaned; I forget its name. The last time I took away – let me see! – a fried fish, a crab, some rice-balls, a quantity of dried ginger and some ripe lychee nuts. Catch Miss Honor’s eyes, Folly; they are dropping out!”

Mrs. Damian laughed, the prettiest little dry laugh.

“Many countries, many customs!” she continued. “You will find that out, when you begin to move about, child. If I had not taken away these things, I should have affronted my hostess by appearing not to like her delicacies. You see? Some ice-cream in your pocket?” as the waiter handed the café mousse a second time. “Your sleeves are too small! Alphonse, bring more of these little cakes, and a box; mademoiselle will take some to her companions.”

“Oh, madame, you are too kind!” Honor had just been wishing that Stephanie and Vivette could see these marvelous little cakes, with the pink and green frosting. “You – you comble me!”

Honor meant “overwhelm”; when she forgot an English word, she Anglicized the French one; it was quite simple, when one understood. Mrs. Damian appeared to understand, for she repeated “comble” with her rustling laugh.

“I was a schoolgirl myself before the Flood! Would your teacher let the girls have some ice-cream? Alphonse, a mold of this – two quarts – in the carriage at eight o’clock, with the cakes. My compliments to – what’s her name? Madame Madeleine, and I trust she will permit a little treat, before bed-time. So! Now, Honor, come and sit beside me on this sofa. I have done all the talking hitherto; now I must rest, and you shall talk.”

Honor was stricken dumb: she gazed at her hostess, mute and round-eyed.

“Talk!” said Mrs. Damian sharply. “You are not deaf? Nor dumb? Very well!” She settled herself among a pile of satin cushions.

“Pardon, madame!” faltered Honor. “Of what shall I talk? I – I know so little – ”