Georgette opened her bag, made a few passes at her face as she looked in the little mirror, re-defined her lips with the lip-stick, and straightened her hat.
"Good," she said.
We went into the room full of people and Braddocks and the men at his table stood up.
"I wish to present my fiancée, Mademoiselle Georgette Leblanc," I said. Georgette smiled that wonderful smile, and we shook hands all round.
"Are you related to Georgette Leblanc, the singer?" Mrs. Braddocks asked.
"Connais pas," Georgette answered.
"But you have the same name," Mrs. Braddocks insisted cordially.
"No," said Georgette. "Not at all. My name is Hobin."
"But Mr. Barnes introduced you as Mademoiselle Georgette Leblanc. Surely he did," insisted Mrs. Braddocks, who in the excitement of talking French was liable to have no idea what she was saying.
"He's a fool," Georgette said.
"Oh, it was a joke, then," Mrs. Braddocks said.
"Yes," said Georgette. "To laugh at."
"Did you hear that, Henry?" Mrs. Braddocks called down the table to Braddocks. "Mr. Barnes introduced his fiancée as Mademoiselle Leblanc, and her name is actually Hobin."
"Of course, darling. Mademoiselle Hobin, I've known her for a very long time."
"Oh, Mademoiselle Hobin," Frances Clyne called, speaking French very rapidly and not seeming so proud and astonished as Mrs. Braddocks at its coming out really French. "Have you been in Paris long? Do you like it here? You love Paris, do you not?"
"Who's she?" Georgette turned to me. "Do I have to talk to her?"
