At first, with the inexperience of youth, she used to plunge her painted face into soapsuds and scrub vigorously till her own complexion appeared, a good deal overheated and temporarily shiny; but before long she had yielded to Alphonsine’s entreaties and representations and had adopted the butter method, long familiar to chimney-sweeps.

The butter lay ready; not in a lordly dish, but in a clean tin can with a cover, of the kind workmen use for fetching beer, and commonly called a ‘growler’ in New York, for some reason which escapes etymologists.

Having got rid of the upper strata of white lace and fine linen, artfully done up so as to tremble like aspen leaves with Lucia’s mad trills, Margaret proceeded to butter her face thoroughly.  It occurred to her just then that all the other artists who had appeared with her were presumably buttering their faces at the same moment, and that if the public could look in upon them it would be very much surprised indeed.  At the thought she forgot what she had been thinking of and smiled.

The maid, who was holding her hair back where it escaped the comb, smiled too, and evidently considered that the relaxation of Margaret’s buttered features was equivalent to a permission to speak.

‘It was a great triumph for Madame,’ she observed.  ’All the papers will praise Madame to-morrow.  Madame saved many lives.’

‘Was Mr. Griggs in the house?’ Margaret asked.  ‘I did not see him.’

Alphonsine did not answer at once, and when she spoke her tone had changed.

‘Yes, Madame.  Mr. Griggs was in the house.’

Margaret wondered whether she had saved his life too, in his own estimation or in that of her maid, and while she pondered the question she buttered her nose industriously.

Alphonsine took a commercial view of the case.

’If Madame would appear three times more in New York, before sailing, the manager would give ten thousand francs a night,’ she observed.

Margaret said nothing to this, but she thought it would be amusing to show herself to an admiring public in her present condition.

‘Madame is now a heroine,’ continued Alphonsine, behind her.  ’Madame can ask anything she pleases.  Several milliardaires will now offer to marry Madame.’

‘Alphonsine,’ answered Margaret, ‘you have no sense.’

The maid smiled, knowing that her mistress could not see even the reflection of the smile in the glass; but she said nothing.

‘No sense,’ Margaret repeated, with conviction.  ‘None at all’

The maid allowed a few seconds to pass before she spoke again.

’Or if Madame would accept to sing in one or two private houses in New York, we could ask a very great price, more than the manager would give.’

‘I daresay.’

‘It is certain,’ said Alphonsine.  ’At the French ball to which Madame kindly allowed me to go, the valet of Mr. Van Torp approached me.’