I smiled, because (in the Americanized sense of the word) I had one, and was running away from him as fast as I could.  But the thought of Monsieur Charretier as a “beau” made me want to giggle hysterically.

“You say ‘was,’ when you speak of your father and mother,” went on the old lady, with childlike curiosity, which I was encouraging by not going back to bed.  “Does that mean that you’ve lost them?”

“Yes,” I said.

“And lately?”

“My father died when I was sixteen, my mother left me two years ago.”

“You don’t look more than nineteen now.”

“I’m nearly twenty-one.”

“Well, I don’t mean to catechize you, though one certainly must get friendly—­or the other way—­I suppose, penned up in a place like this all night.  And you’ve really been very kind to me.  Although you’re a pretty girl, as you must know, I didn’t think at first I was going to like you so much.”

“And I didn’t you,” I retorted, laughing, because I really did begin to like the queer old lady now, and was glad I hadn’t dropped a pillow on her head.

“That’s right.  Be frank.  I like frankness.  Do you know, I believe you and I would get on very well together if our acquaintance was going to be continued?  If Beau approves of a person, I let myself go.”

“You use him as if he were a barometer.”

“There you are again, with your funny ideas!  I shall remember that one, and bring it out as if it were my own.  I consider myself quite lucky to have got you for a travelling companion.  It’s such a comfort to hear English again, and talk it, after having to converse by gesture—­except with Beau.  I hope you’re going on to Italy?”

“No.  I’m getting off at Cannes.”

“I’m sorry.  But I suppose you’re glad?”

“Not particularly,” said I.

“I’ve always heard that Cannes was gay.”

“It won’t be for me.”

“Your relations there don’t go out much?”

“I’ve no relations in Cannes.  Aren’t you tired now, and wouldn’t you like me to make you a little more comfortable?”

“Does that mean that you’re tired of answering questions?  I haven’t meant to be rude.”

“You haven’t been,” I assured her.  “You’re very kind to take an interest.”

“Well, then, I’m not tired, and I wouldn’t like to be made more comfortable.  I’m very well as I am.  Do you want to go to sleep?”

“I want to, but I know I can’t.  I’m getting hungry.  Are you?”

“Getting?  I’ve got.  If Simpkins were here I’d have her make us tea, in my tea-basket.”

“I’ll make it if you like,” I volunteered.

“A French—­a half French—­girl make tea?”

“It’s the American half that knows how.”

“You look too ornamental to be useful.  But you can try.”

I did try, and succeeded.  It was rather fun, and never did tea taste so delicious.  There were biscuits to go with it, which Beau shared; and I do wish that people (other people) were obliged to make faces when they eat, such as Beau has to make, because if so, one could add a new interest to life by inviting even the worst bores to dinner.