“Ah!” murmured Jacqueline, complacently.  “I told madame I had a quite extraordinary talent in the dressing of hair—­though madame was sceptical!  And as for the purchase of clothes.  Did he admire madame’s velvet cloak?”

Maxine smiled tolerantly.  “Of course he did not!”

Jacqueline cast up her eyes to heaven.  “These English—­they are extraordinary!  But I tell you this, madame, he knew here”—­she touched her heart—­“he knew here, that madame looked what she is—­a queen!”

“Absurd child!”

The reproof was gentle; Jacqueline’s nimble tongue took advantage of the chance given it.

“And tell me, madame?  He play his part gallantly—­Monsieur Edouard?” Never before had she dared so much; but never before had Maxine’s eyes looked as they looked to-night.

Before replying, Maxine leaned her elbows on the table and took her face between her hands.

“It was past belief—­that also!” she said at last.  “He seemed a different being.  I cannot understand it.”

“He seemed of a greater interest, madame?”

“Of a strangely greater interest.”

“In what manner, madame?  Looks?  Words?” Cunning as a monkey, little Jacqueline was all soft innocence in the method of her questioning.

“In every way—­manner—­speech—­expression of thought.  And, Jacqueline”—­she turned her face, all radiant and unsuspicious, to her interlocutor—­“I made a discovery!  He loves Max!”

Jacqueline, with downcast eyes and discreet bearing, carefully removed the empty tea-cup.

“Yes, he loves me as Max!  He told me so.  It has made me marvellously happy—­marvellously happy and, also”—­she sighed—­“also, Jacqueline, just a little sad!”

“Sad, madame?”

“Yes, sad because he loves Max as one loves a child, expecting no return; and—­I would be loved as an equal.”

“Assuredly, madame.”

“I must be loved as an equal!” Fire suddenly kindled her dreaming voice; a look, clear and alert, suddenly crossed her eyes.  “Jacqueline,” she cried, “I have set myself a new task.  I shall make him respect Max as well as love him; Max shall become his equal.  Now, suppose you set yourself a task like that, how would you begin?”

“Oh, madame!” Jacqueline was all deprecation.

“Do not fear.  Tell me!”

“Madame, it is not for me—­” Jacqueline’s triumph in the moment, and her concealing of the triumph, were things exquisitely feminine.

“Tell me!”

“I may speak from the heart, madame?”

Maxine bent her head in gracious condescension.

“Then, madame, I would make of Monsieur Edouard a book of figures.  The princess would learn the rules; Monsieur Max would shut the book, and make up the sum.  It would be quite simple.”

The hot color scorched Maxine’s face; she rose quickly.  “Jacqueline!  I had not expected this!”

“Madame desired me to speak from the heart.  The heart, at times, is unruly!”