“It’s the usual story,” commented Louise calmly, “with these nouveaux riches.”

“Sh!” A moment of stillness, as if both were listening.  Then, “Sprechen Sie Deutsch?”

“I—­er—­read it fairly well.”

“Parlez-vous Francais?”

“Oh, oui!  Oui!”

“Allors.” And there followed, in undertones, a short, spirited conversation in the Gallic.

Gwendolyn made a silent resolution to devote more time and thought to the peevish and staccato instruction of Miss Du Bois.

The two were interrupted by a light, quick step outside.  Again the hall door opened.

“Oh, you’ll pardon my having to desert you, won’t you?” It was Gwendolyn’s mother.  “I didn’t intend being so long.”

Gwendolyn half-started forward, then stopped.

“Why, of course!”—­with sounds of rising.

“Certainly!”

“Differences below stairs, I find, require prompt action.”

“I fancy you have oceans of executive ability,” declared Louise, warmly.  “That Orphans’ Home affair—­I hear you managed it tre_men_dously!”

“No!  No!”

“Really, my dear,”—­it was the other woman—­“to be quite frank, we must confess that we haven’t missed you!  We’ve been enjoying our glimpse of the nursery.”

“It’s simply lovely!” cried Louise.

“And what a perfectly sweet dressing-table!”

“Have you seen my little daughter?—­Thomas!”

“Yes, Madam.”

“There’s a draught coming from somewhere—­”

“It’s the side window, Madam.”

Instinctively Gwendolyn flattened herself against the wood-work at her back.

Three or four steps brought Thomas across the floor.  Then his two big hands appeared high up on the hangings.  The next moment, the hands parted, sweeping the curtains with them.

To escape detection was impossible.  A quick thought made Gwendolyn raise a face upon which was a forced expression that bore only a faint resemblance to a smile.

“Boo!” she said, jumping out at him.

Startled, he fell back.  “Why, Miss Gwendolyn!”

“Gwendolyn?” repeated her mother, surprised.  “Why, what were you doing there, darling?”

“Gwendolyn!”—­this in a faint gasp from both visitors.

Gwendolyn came slowly forward.  She did not raise her eyes; only curtsied.

“So this is your little daughter!” A gloved hand was reached out, and Gwendolyn was drawn forward.  “How cunning!”

Gwendolyn recognized the voice of Louise.  Now, she looked up.  And saw a pleasant face, young, but not so pretty as her mother’s.  She shook hands bashfully.  Then shook again with an older woman, whose plain countenance was dimly familiar.  After which, giving a sudden little bound, and putting up eager arms, she was caught to her mother.

“My baby!”