je ne veux pas, je ne veux pas," sobbed Mademoiselle.

No one spoke; Mademoiselle lay snuffling and shuddering. Solomon's
scissors fell on to the floor. "Mais pour_quoi_ pas, Mademoiselle?" she
interrogated as she recovered them.

"Pourquoi, pourquoi!" choked Mademoiselle. Her suffused little face came
up for a moment towards Solomon. She met Miriam's gaze as if she did not
see her. "Vous me demandez pourquoi je ne veux pas partager ma chambre
avec une femine mariee?" Her head sank again and her little grey form
jerked sharply as she sobbed.

"Probably a widder, Mademoiselle," ventured Bertha Martin, "oon voove."

"_Verve,_ Bertha," came Millie's correcting voice and Miriam's interest
changed to excited thoughts of Fraulein--not hating her, and choosing
Mademoiselle to sleep with the servant, a new servant--the things on the
landing--Mademoiselle refusing to share a room with a married woman...
she felt about round this idea as Millie's prim, clear voice went on...
her eyes clutched at Mademoiselle, begging to understand... she gazed at
the little down-flung head, fine little tendrils frilling along the edge
of her hair, her little hard grey shape, all miserable and ashamed. It
was dreadful. Miriam felt she could not bear it. She turned away. It was
a strange new thought that anyone should object to being with a married
woman... would she object? or Harriett? Not unless it were suggested to
them.

Was there some special refinement in this French girl that none of them
understood? Why should it be refined to object to share a room with a
married woman? A cold shadow closed in on Miriam's mind.

"I don't care," said Millie almost quickly, with a crimson face. "It's
a special occasion. I think Mademoiselle ought to complain. If I were in
her place I should write home. It's not right. Fraulein has no right to
make her sleep with a servant."

"Why can't the servant sleep in one of the back attics?" asked Solomon.

"Not furnished, my sweetheart," said Gertrude, "and you know Kinder
you're all running on very fast about servants--the good Frau is our
housekeeper."

"Will she have meals with us?"

"Gewiss Jimmie, meals."

"Mon Dieu, vous etes terribles, toutes!" came Mademoiselle's voice.
It seemed to bite into the table. "Oh, eest grossiere!" She gathered
herself up and escaped into the little schoolroom.

"Armes, armes, Momzell," wailed Ulrica gently gazing out of the window.

"Som one should go, go you, Henche