“Don’t you think he’s a bright baby?” asked the child, sitting down on a footstool, which was a favourite seat of hers.

“For a French biby, ’e ’s as bright as you could expect,” replied her hostess, judicially.

“Are they different?”

“Well, they ain’t Hinglish.”

“I’m half American,” said the little girl.

“You don’t talk through your nose.  Far as I can see, you’ve got as good a haccent as me.”

“I suppose yours is good?” asked Rosemary, as if she longed to have a doubt set forever at rest.

“Rather!  Ain’t I been brought out from London on purpose so as this biby can learn to speak Hinglish, instead of French?  It’s pretty near the sime thing as bein’ nursery governess.  Madame wouldn’t trust her own wye of pronouncing the languidge.  She must ’ave a Hinglish girl.”

“And she sent for you on purpose?” the child enquired, with increasing respect.

“Well, I was the only one as would come at the price.  ’Tain’t big wages; but I’m seein’ loife.  Lor’, I come down here with Madame and Mounseer a fortnight ago, and Monte Carlo ain’t got many secrets from me.  I was a duffer, though, at first.  When I ‘eerd all them shots poppin’ off every few minutes, up by the Casino, I used to think ’twas the suicides a shooting theirselves all over the place, for before I left ’ome, I ’ad a warnin’ from my young man that was the kind of goin’s on they ’ad here.  But now I know it’s only the pigeon shooters, tryin’ for prizes, and I wouldn’t eat a pigeon pie in this ’otel, not if ’twas ever so!”

“Do they ever have them?” asked the little girl, awed.

“Not as I knows of, but they may for Christmas.  I sye, are you lookin’ forward to your Christmas, kiddy?”

“Angel—­that’s Mother, I mean—­says I’m not going to have much of a Christmas this year.  I’m trying not to mind.  I suppose it’s because Santa Claus can’t get to the Riviera, with his sleigh and reindeer.  How could he, Miss Jane, when there’s no snow, and not even a scrap of ice?”

“Pshaw!” said Miss Jane.  “It ain’t Santa Claus brings you things, snow or no snow.  Only babies believe that.  You’re old enough to know better.  It’s your father and mother does it all.”

“Are you sure?” asked Rosemary.

“Dead sure.  Don’t be a silly and cry, now, just because there ain’t any Santa Claus, nor any fairies.”

“It isn’t that,” said the little girl.  “It’s because I can never have any more Christmases, if it depends on a father.  You know, I haven’t a father.”

“I supposed you ’adn’t, as ’e ain’t ’ere, with yer ma,” replied the young person.  “She’s mighty pretty.”

“I think she’s the prettiest mother in the world,” said Rosemary, proudly.

“She don’t look much like a mother.”

The child opened her eyes very wide at this new point of view.  “I couldn’t have a mother who looked any other way,” she said.  “What do you think she does look like?”