Nothing escaped the restless eye of Madame.

‘Wat is that, dear cheaile?’ she enquired, drawing near and scrutinising the head of the gipsy charm, which showed like a little ladybird newly lighted on the sheet.

‘Nothing—­a charm—­folly.  Pray, Madame, allow me to go to sleep.’

So, with another look and a little twiddle between her finger and thumb, she seemed satisfied; but, unhappily for me, she did not seem at all sleepy.  She busied herself in unpacking and displaying over the back of the chair a whole series of London purchases—­silk dresses, a shawl, a sort of lace demi-coiffure then in vogue, and a variety of other articles.

The vainest and most slammakin of women—­the merest slut at home, a milliner’s lay figure out of doors—­she had one square foot of looking-glass upon the chimneypiece, and therein tried effects, and conjured up grotesque simpers upon her sinister and weary face.

I knew that the sure way to prolong this worry was to express my uneasiness under it, so I bore it as quietly as I could; and at last fell fast asleep with the gaunt image of Madame, with a festoon of grey silk with a cerise stripe, pinched up in her finger and thumb, and smiling over her shoulder across it into the little shaving-glass that stood on the chimney.

I awoke suddenly in the morning, and sat up in my bed, having for a moment forgotten all about our travelling.  A moment more, however, brought all back again.

‘Are we in time, Madame?’

‘For the packet?’ she enquired, with one of her charming smiles, and cutting a caper on the floor.  ’To be sure; you don’t suppose they would forget.  We have two hours yet to wait.’

‘Can we see the sea from the window?’

’No, dearest cheaile; you will see’t time enough.

‘I’d like to get up,’ I said.

’Time enough, my dear Maud; you are fatigued; are you sure you feel quite well?’

‘Well enough to get up; I should be better, I think, out of bed.’

’There is no hurry, you know; you need not even go by the next packet.  Your uncle, he tell me, I may use my discretion.’

‘Is there any water?’

‘They will bring some.’

‘Please, Madame, ring the bell.’

She pulled it with alacrity.  I afterwards learnt that it did not ring.

‘What has become of my gipsy pin?’ I demanded, with an unaccountable sinking of the heart.

’Oh! the little pin with the red top? maybe it ’as fall on the ground; we weel find when you get up.’

I suspected that she had taken it merely to spite me.  It would have been quite the thing she would have liked.  I cannot describe to you how the loss of this little ‘charm’ depressed and excited me.  I searched the bed; I turned over all the bed-clothes; I searched in and outside; at last I gave up.

‘How odious!’ I cried; ‘somebody has stolen it merely to vex me.’