“Well, then, if you are sorry, why don’t you let me pass?” asked the girl of the soft eyes.

“If you please, I want to give you a note,” said the child, anxiously searching a small pocket.  “It’s from Mother, for Madame.  She told me to take it to your door; so I did, several times, but nobody answered.  Here ’tis, please, Mademoiselle.”

Mademoiselle snatched it from the hand, which was very tiny, and pink, with dimples where grown up folk have knuckles.  She then pushed past the child, and went on to a door at the end of the passage, which she threw open, without knocking.

“Eh bien, Julie!  You have been gone long enough to break the bank twice over.  What luck have you had?” exclaimed the husky voice of a woman who sat in an easy chair beside a wood fire, telling her own fortune with an old pack of cards, spread upon a sewing board, on her capacious lap.

She was in a soiled dressing gown of purple flannel, with several of the buttons off.  In the clear light of a window at the woman’s back, her hair, with a groundwork of crimson, was overshot with iridescent lights.  On a small table at her side a tray had been left, with the remains of dejeuner; a jug stained brown with streaks of coffee; a crumbled crescent roll; some balls of silver paper which had contained cream chocolates; ends of cigarettes, and a scattered grey film of ashes.  At her feet a toy black Pomeranian lay coiled on the torn bodice of a red dress; and all the room was in disorder, with an indiscriminate litter of hats, gloves, French novels, feather boas, slippers, and fallen blouses or skirts.

The lady of the roses went to the mirror over the untidy mantel piece, and looked at herself, as she answered.  “No luck at roulette or trente.  But the best of luck outside.”

“What, then?”

The girl began to hum, as she powdered her nose with a white glove, lying in a powder box.

“You remember le beau brun?”

“The young man in Paris you made so many enquiries about at Ritz’s?  Is he here?”

“He is.  I’ve just had lunch with him.  Oh, there are lots of things to tell.  He is a good boy.”

“How, good?  You told him we had had losses?”

“I painted a sad picture.  He was most sympathetic.”

“To what extent?”

“Chere maman! One would think we were vulgar adventuresses.  We are not.  He respects me, this dear young man, and it is right that he should.  I deserve to be respected.  You know the fable about the dog who dropped his meat in the water, trying to snap at its reflection?  Well, I don’t ask strangers for loans.  I make my impression.  Monsieur Hugh Egerton is my friend—­at present.  Later, he will be what I choose.  And most certainly I shall choose him for a husband.  What luck, meeting him again!  It is time I settled down.”

“They said at Ritz’s that he was one of the young millionaires, well known already in America,” the fat woman reflected aloud.  “It is a good thing that I have brought you up well, Julie, and that you are pretty.”