Her dress was the very latest dream of a neurotic Parisian modiste, and would have been seductive on a slender girl.  On her—­well, at least she would have her wish in it—­she would not pass unnoticed!

She looked surprised at sight of me, and I saw she didn’t realize that I was the expected candidate.

“Lady Kilmarny couldn’t come,” I began to explain, “and—­”

“Oh!” she cut me short.  “So you are the young person she is recommending as a maid.”

I corrected Miss Paget when she called me a “young woman,” but times have changed since then, and in future I must humbly consent to be a young person, or even a creature.

For a minute I forgot, and almost sat down.  It would have been the end of me if I had!  Luckily I remembered What I was, and stood before my mistress, trying to look like Patience on a monument with butter in her mouth which mustn’t be allowed to melt.

“What is your name?” began the catechism (and the word was “nime,” according to Lady Turnour).

“N or M,” nearly slipped out of my mouth, but I put Satan with all his mischief behind me, and answered that I was Lys d’Angely.

“Oh, the surname doesn’t matter.  As you’re a French girl, I shall call you by your first name.  It’s always done.”

(The first time in history, I’d swear, that a d’Angely was ever told his name didn’t matter!)

“You seem to speak English very well for a French woman?” (This almost with suspicion.)

“My mother was American.”

“How extraordinary!”

(This was apparently a tache.  Evidently lady’s-maids are expected not to have American mothers!)

“Let me hear your French accent.”

I let her hear it.

“H’m!  It seems well enough.  Paris?”

“Paris, madame.”

“Don’t call me ‘madame.’  Any common person is madame.  You should say ’your ladyship’.”

I said it.

“And I want you should speak to me in the third person, like the French servants are supposed to do in good houses.”

“If mad—­if your ladyship wishes.”

(Thank heaven for a sense of humour!  My one wild desire was to laugh.  Without that blessing, I should have yearned to slap her.)

“What references have you got from your last situation?”

“I have never been in service before—­my lady.”

“My word!  That’s bad.  However, you’re on the spot, and Lady Kilmarny recommends you.  The poor Princess was going to try you, it seems.  I should think she wouldn’t have given much for a maid without any experience.”

“I was to have had two thousand francs a year as the Princess’s com—­if the Princess was satisfied.”

“Preposterous!  I don’t believe a word of it.  Why, what can you do?  Can you dress hair?  Can you make a blouse?”

“I did my mother’s hair, and sometimes my cousin’s.”

“Your mother! Your cousin!  I’m talking of a lidy.”