“I want you to dine with me—­really dine,” she said, and her voice was both eager and repressed.  “We win go to Babaudin’s—­one gets an excellent haricot there—­and you shall have that little white cheese that you love.  Come!  I want you particularly.  I will even make him bring champagne—­anything.”

Nadie gave her a quick look and made a little theatrical gesture of delight.

“Quell bonheur!” she cried for the benefit of the others; and then in a lower tone:  “But not Babaudins, petite.  Andre will not permit Babaudin’s; he says it is not convenable,” and she threw up her eyes with mock resignation.  “Say Papaud’s.  They keep their feet off the table at Papaud’s—­there are fewer of those betes des Anglais.”

“Papaud’s is cheaper,” Elfrida returned darkly.  “The few Englishmen who dine at Babaudin’s behave perfectly well.  I will not be insulted about the cost.  I’ll be answerable to Andre.  You don’t lie as a general thing, and why now?  I can afford it, truly.  You need not be distressed.”

Mademoiselle Palicsky looked into the girl’s tense face for an instant, and laughed a gay assent.  But to herself she said, as she finished drying her brushes on an inconceivably dirty bit of cotton:  “She has found herself out, she has come to the truth.  She has discovered that it is not in her, and she is coming to me for corroboration.  Well, I will not give it, me!  It is extremely disagreeable, and I have not the courage. Pourquoi donc! I will send her to Monsieur John Kendal; she may make him responsible.  He will break her, but he will not lie to her; they sacrifice all to their consciences, those English!  And now, you good-natured fool, you are in for a devil of an evening!”

CHAPTER IV.

“Three months more,” Elfrida Bell said to herself next morning, in the act of boiling an egg over a tiny kerosene stove in the cupboard that served her as a kitchen, “and I will put it to every test I know.  Three unflinching months!  John Kendal will not have gone back to England by that time.  I shall still get his opinion.  If he is only as encouraging as Nadie was last night, dear thing!  I almost forgave her for being so much, much cleverer than I am.  Oh, letters!” as a heavy knock repeated itself upon the door of the room outside.

There was only one; it was thrust beneath the door, showing a white triangle to her expectancy as she ran out to secure it, while the fourth flight creaked under Madame Vamousin descending.  She picked it up with a light heart—­she was young and she had slept.  Yesterday’s strain had passed; she was ready to count yesterday’s experience among the things that must be met.  Nadie had been so sensible about it.  This was a letter from home, and the American mail was not due until next day.  Inside there would be news of a little pleasure trip to New York, which her father and mother had been