“Ah!” cried Jeanne, greatly concerned, “my poor Zephyrine has fainted,” and, rushing forward to her assistance, worse results followed.  Mesdames Lili and Josephine, two middle-aged ladies somewhat the worse for wear, overcome by the distressing spectacle, or by the sleeve of Jeanne’s dress as she leant across them, fell off their chairs too—­one, like Zephyrine, on to the table, the other on to the floor, dragging down with her the plateful of ragout in front of her, while her friend’s sudden descent upon the table completed the general knockings over and spillings which Zephyrine had begun.

“Oh dear! oh dear!” cried Jeanne; “all the chocolate ragout is spilt, and the whipped-up egg is mixed with the orange-juice soup.  Oh dear! oh dear! and I thought we should have had the whole feast to eat up ourselves after the dolls had had enough.”

“Yes,” said Hugh, “that’s what comes of having stupid sticks of dolls at your feasts.  The animals wouldn’t have behaved like that.”

But, seeing that poor Jeanne was really in tears at this unfortunate termination of her entertainment, he left off teasing her, and having succeeded in rescuing some remains of the good things, they sat down on the floor together and ate them up very amicably.

“I don’t think I do care much for dolls,” said Jeanne meditatively, when she had munched the last crumbs of the snipped-up almonds, which were supposed to represent some very marvellous dish. ("I like almonds terribly—­don’t you, Cheri?”) she added, as a parenthesis.  “No, I don’t care for dolls.  You are quite right about them; they are stupid, and you can’t make fancies about them, because their faces always have the same silly look.  I don’t know what I like playing at best.  O Marcelline!” she exclaimed, as the old nurse just then came into the room, “O Marcelline! do tell us a story; we are tired of playing.”

“Does Monsieur Cheri, too, wish me tell him a story?” asked Marcelline, looking curiously at Hugh.

“Yes, of course,” said Hugh.  “Why do you look at me that funny way, Marcelline?”

“Why,” said Marcelline, smiling, “I was thinking only that perhaps Monsieur finds so many stories in the tapestry that he would no longer care for my stupid little old tales.”

Hugh did not answer.  He was wondering to himself what Marcelline really meant; whether she knew of the wonders concealed behind the tapestry, or was only teasing him a little in the kind but queer way she sometimes did.

“Marcelline,” he said suddenly at last, “I don’t understand you.”

“Do you understand yourself, my little Monsieur?” said Marcelline.  “Do any of us understand ourselves? all the different selves that each of us is?”

“No,” said Hugh, “I daresay we don’t.  It is very puzzling; it’s all very puzzling.”

“In the country where I lived when I was a little girl,” began Marcelline, but Jeanne interrupted her.