“I’m not late, am I?” she asked.

“No,” answered Rose, glancing at the clock.  “It’s ten minutes to seven.”

“I couldn’t find my things.  It was like dressing in a dream, when, as soon as you find something you want, you immediately lose everything else.”

“I know,” laughed Rose.  “I had occasion to pack a suit-case myself last night, during my troubled slumbers.”

A large yellow cat appeared mysteriously out of the shadows and came, yawning, toward the fire.  He sat down on the edge of Madame’s grey gown, and blinked.

Isabel drew her skirts away.  “I don’t like cats,” she said.

“There are cats and cats,” remarked Madame Bernard in a tone of gentle rebuke.  “Mr. Boffin is not an ordinary cat.  He is a gentleman and a scholar and he never forgets his manners.”

“I’ve wondered, sometimes,” said Rose, “whether he really knows everything, or only pretends that he does.  He looks very wise.”

“Silence and reserve will give anyone a reputation for wisdom,” Madame responded.  She bent down to stroke the yellow head, but, though Mr. Boffin gratefully accepted the caress, he did not condescend to purr.  Presently he stalked away into the shadows, waving his yellow tail.

“What a lovely room this is,” observed Isabel, after a pause.

“It’s comfortable,” replied Madame.  “I couldn’t live in an ugly place.”

Everything in the room spoke eloquently of good taste, from the deep-toned Eastern rug at the hearth to the pictures upon the grey-green walls.  There was not a false note anywhere in the subtle harmony of line, colour, and fabric.  It was the sort of room that one comes back to, after long absence, with renewed appreciation.

“I love old mahogany,” continued Isabel.  “I suppose you’ve had this a long, long time.”

“No, it’s new.  To me—­I mean.  I have some beautiful old French mahogany, but I don’t use it.”

Her voice was very low at the end of the sentence.  She compressed her lips tightly and, leaning forward, vigorously poked the fire.  A stream of sparks went up the chimney and quick flames leaped to follow.

“Don’t set the house on fire, Aunt Francesca,” cautioned Rose.  “There’s the dinner gong.”

The three went out, Madame Bernard a little ahead and the two younger women together.  Rose sat opposite the head of the table and Isabel was placed at Madame’s right.  In a single glance, the guest noted that the table was perfectly appointed.  “Are you making company of me?” she asked.

“Not at all,” smiled Madame.  “None the less, there is a clear distinction between eating and dining and we endeavour to dine.”

“If Aunt Francesca were on a desert island,” said Rose, “I believe she would make a grand affair of her solitary dinner, and have her coffee in the morning before she rolled out of the sand.”

The little old lady dimpled with pleasure.  “I’d try to,” she laughed.  “I think I’d—­”