oebe Latrobe: what is yours?"

"Louise Dupret. I am Lady Delawarr's woman. I have been here two long,
long years; and nobody speaks French but Madame and Mesdemoiselles her
daughters. And Mademoiselle Marie will not, though she can. She will
talk to me in English, and laughs at me when I understand her not. Ah,
it is dreadful!"

"From what part of France do you come?"

"From the mountains of the Cevennes. And you?"

"The same. Then you are of the religion?"

This was the Huguenot form of inquiry whether a stranger belonged to
them. Louise's eyes lighted up.

"We are daughters of the Church of the Desert," she said. "And we are
sisters in Jesus Christ."

From that hour Phoebe was not quite friendless at Delawarr Court. It
was well for her: since the preparations for Berkeley absorbed Gatty,
and of Rhoda she saw nothing except during the processes of dressing and
undressing. Very elaborate processes they became, for Lady Delawarr
kept a private hair-dresser, who came round every morning to curl, friz,
puff, and powder each young lady in turn; and the unfortunate maiden who
kept him waiting an instant was relegated to the last, and certain to be
late for breakfast. Following in the footsteps of his superiors, he did
not notice Phoebe, nor count her as one of the group; but after the
meeting on the stairs, as soon as Lady Delawarr released her, Louise was
at hand with a beaming face, entreating permission to arrange
Mademoiselle, and she sent her downstairs looking very fresh and
stylish, almost enough to provoke the envy of Rhoda.

"Ah, Mademoiselle!--if you were but a rich, rich lady, and I might be
your maid!" sighed Louise. "This is a dreary world; and a dreary
country, this England; and a dreary house, this Cour de la Warre!
Madame is--is--ah, well, she is my mistress, and it is not right to
chatter all one thinks. Still one cannot help thinking. Mademoiselle
Betti--if she were in my country, we should call her Elise, which is
pretty--it is ugly, Betti!--well, Mademoiselle Betti is very
good-natured--very, indeed; and Mademoiselle Henriette--ah, this droll
country! her name is Henriette, and they call her Gatti!--she is very
good, very good and pleasant Mademoiselle Henriette. And since she had
the small-pox she is nicer than before. It had spoiled her face to
beautify her heart. Ah, that poor demoiselle, how she suffers!
Perhaps, Mademoiselle, it is not right that I should tell you, even you