Marthe's social level—in a sense colleagues. This impression floated through his mind as he exchanged commonplaces with her. In her remarks there was no indication of an attempt to be superior to her surroundings, but as she talked the immaculate quality came through even more arrestingly than ever. With the point of view of the gutter she displayed the instincts of a lady. Even the daintiness of her handkerchief, the freshness of her linen collar and cuffs, the care she had given to her nails were indicative of self-respect rather than coquetry. She had admitted, with a laugh quite free from shame, that she was engaged in la lucrative inconduite and that she was one of those creatures who can be obtained "by the dozen,"—to which Grover's honest retort was that she was a specimen apart.
Not the least unusual manifestation was her insistence on offering him a drink in return for' his, On a sure instinct he accepted, and was glad he had done so when he saw the pretty little flare of pride in her eyes as she gave the order,—not imperiously, but gently, almost confidentially.
"You don't look French," Grover remarked.
"I'm Alsatian," said Marthe. "Can't you tell from my accent! On the street they call me the milkmaid! When they're not calling me cow!" she added with a ribald laugh.
"Are you married?" asked Grover, unable to resist at least one intrusive question.
