of a drum, the lord of all it contained appeared in the doorway,
and stopped, looking at me in surprise.

He is common, too, this Sir Samuel, millionaire maker of pills; but he
is common in a good, almost pathetic way, quite different from his
wife's way--or Monsieur Charretier's. He has stick-up gray hair curling
all over his round head, blue eyes, twinkling with a mild, yet shrewd
expression (which might be merry if encouraged by her ladyship), and a
large, slouching body with stooped shoulders.

"What young lady have we here?" he inquired.

"Not a young lady at all," explained his wife sharply. "My new French
maid."

"I beg your pardon, I'm sure," said Sir Samuel, though it wasn't quite
clear whether it was my forgiveness or that of his spouse he craved, for
his mistake in supposing me to be a "young lady."

"What's her name?" he wanted to know, evidently approving of me, if not
as a maid, at least as a human being.

"Something ridiculous in French that sounds like 'Liz,'" sniffed her
ladyship. "But I shall call her Elise. Also I shall expect her to stop
dyeing her hair."

"But, madame, I do not dye it!" I exclaimed.

"Don't tell me. I know dyed hair when I see it."

(She ought to, having experience enough with her own!)

"Nature is the dyer, then," I ventured to persist, piqued to
self-defence by the certainty that her object was to strip me of my
wicked mask before her husband.

"I'm not used to being contradicted by my servants," her ladyship
reminded me.

"My dear, do let the poor girl know whether she dyes her hair or not."
Sir Samuel pleaded for me with more kindness than discretion. "I'm sure
she speaks beautiful English."

[Illustration: "While I wrestled ... with a bodice as snug as the head
of a drum, the lord of all it contained appeared in the doorway"]

"As if that had anything to do with it! She may as well understand, to
begin with, that I won't put up with impudence and answering back.
Hair that colour doesn't go with dark eyes. And eyelashes like that
aren't suitable to lady's-maids."

"If your ladyship pleases, what am I to do with mine?" I asked in the
sweetest little voice; and I would have given anything for someone to
whom I might have telegraphed a laugh.

"Wash the dark stuff off of them and let them be light," were the simple
instructions promptly returned to me.

There was no more to be said, so I cast down the offending features (are
one's lashes one's features?) and