“It is all a matter of taste, Mademoiselle,” replied Dudu, so amiably that Hugh wondered more and more at his politeness to Jeanne, who was certainly not very civil to him.  “For my part, I confess I have always had a great fancy for white—­the force of contrast, I suppose—­and this brings me back to telling you how very nice your great-grandmother and her sister looked that day walking up and down the terrace path in their white dresses.”

“My great-grandmother!” exclaimed Jeanne.  “Why, you said ’our young ladies.’”

“So they were our young ladies,” replied Dudu.  “Even though one was your great-grandmother, Mademoiselle, and not yours only but Monsieur Cheri’s too, and the other, of course, your great-grand-aunt.  There have been many ‘our young ladies’ that I can remember in this house, which has so long been the home of one family, and my home always.  In three or four hundred years one sees a good deal.  Ah yes!  Well, as I was saying, I was standing on the edge of the parapet looking over at the young ladies, and admiring them and the sunshine and the flowers in the garden all at once, when I suddenly heard a window open.  It was not one of the windows of our house.  I have very quick ears, and I knew that in an instant, so I looked about to see what window it was.  In those days there were not quite so many houses behind our garden as there are now.  Your great-great-grandfather sold some of the land about that time, and then houses were built, but just then there were only two or three that overlooked one side of the garden.  One of them was a large high house, which was let in flats to various families, often visitors to the town, or strangers who had come for a short time for the education of their children, or some other reason.  It was not long before I discovered that the window I had heard open was in this house.  It was one on the second story, looking on to a little balcony which at one end was not very high above the terrace walk.  I watched to see who had opened the window, and in a few moments I saw peeping out half timidly the pretty fair face of a little girl.  Quite a little girl she was, not much older than you, Mademoiselle Jeanne, but not like you, for she had light hair and soft blue eyes, and a fair face like Monsieur Cheri.  She was a little English girl.  She peeped out, and then, seeing that no one was observing her, she came quietly on to the balcony, and, creeping down into a corner where she could scarcely be seen, she sat watching our two pretty young ladies with all her eyes.  No wonder, I thought; they were very pretty young ladies, and it was nice to see them together, walking up and down with arms intertwined, and talking eagerly, their talk sometimes interrupted by merry bursts of soft girlish laughter.  And all the time the lonely little creature on the balcony sat and watched them longingly, her little pale face pressed against the bars, her plain black dress almost hiding her from notice.