ith due seriousness, she spread the bill
before her, smoothing it out with a practiced wipe of the hand, took
her rubber stamp from the saucer in which' it lay, inked it on the
pad and waited. Annette had been watching her, fascinated by that
great methodical rhythm of movement, but at the pause she started,
fished the required coins from the old purse, and laid them at
Madame's elbow. "Merci, mademoiselle," said Madame, and then, and not
till then, the stamp descended upon the paper. A flick with a
scratchy pen completed the receipt, and Madame turned awkwardly in
the embrace of her chair to hand it to Annette with her weekly smile.
The ritual was accomplished.

"Good morning, mademoiselle. Thank you; good luck."

The mirthless smile discounted the words; the cold, avid eyes were
busy and suspicious. Annette let them stare their fill while she
folded the paper and tucked it into the purse; she had had six weeks
of training in the art of preserving a cheerful countenance.

Then: "Good morning, madame," she smiled, with her gay little nod and
reached the door in good order.

There was still Aristide, the lame man-of-all-work, who absorbed a
weekly franc and never concealed his contempt of the amount. He was
waiting on the steps, leaning on a broom, and turned his rat's face
on her, sourly and impatiently, without a word. She paused as she
came to him and dipped two fingers into the poor old purse;
Aristide's pale, red-edged eyes followed them, while his thin mouth
twisted into contempt.

"This is for you, Aristide," she said, and held out the coin.

He took it in his open palm and surveyed it with lifted eyebrows.
"This?" he inquired.

"Yes." The insult never failed to hurt her; this morning, in
particular, she would have been glad to set forth upon the day's
forlorn hope without that preface of hate and cruel greed. But
Aristide still stood, with the coin in his open hand, staring from it
to her and she flinched from him. "Good morning," she said timidly,
and slipped past.

It needed the gladness of the day, its calm and colorful warmth, to
take the taste of Aristide out of her mouth and uplift her again to
her mood of resolution. Her way lay downhill; the first of her
advertisements gave an address at the foot of the Rue Lafayette; and
soon the stimulus of the thronged streets, the mere neighborhood of
folk who moved briskly and with purpose, re-strung her slackened
nerves and she was again ready for the bat