her stop and speak to the group of girls, talking to them in an eager whisper. Then, followed by two of them, she pursued her way upstairs.
Suzanne came down and approached me, saying simply, “Come,” and led the way toward the servants’ quarters. I followed her, smiling; I was about to make acquaintance with a new side of life.
Yet at the same time I was wondering who Mlle. Delhasse might chance to be: the name seemed familiar to me, and yet for the moment I could not trace it. And then I slapped my thigh in the impulse of my discovery.
“By Jove, Marie Delhasse the singer!” cried I, in English.
“Sir, sir, for Heaven’s sake be quiet!” whispered Suzanne.
“You are perfectly right,” said I, with a nod of approbation.
“And this is the pantry,” said Suzanne, for all the world as though nothing had happened. “And in that cupboard you will find Sampson’s livery.”
“Is it a pretty one?” I asked.
“You, sir, will look well in it,” said she, with that delicate evasive flattery that I love. “Would not you, sir, look well in anything?” she meant.
And while I changed my traveling suit for the livery, I remembered more about Marie Delhasse, and, among other things, that the Duke of Saint-Maclou was rumored to be her most persistent admirer. Some said that she favored him; others denied it with more or less convic-
