nearly as soft as they had been, while she picked up the hanging folds
of pink cloth, and went on.

The narrow corridor at the top of the staircase was somewhat dark, and,
her eyes accustomed to the brilliant light out of doors, the girl
stumbled against a child who was coming towards her.

"_Petit bete!_" she snapped. "You have all but made me fall. Awkward
little thing, why don't you keep out of people's way?"

The child flushed. She would have liked to answer that it was
Mademoiselle who had got in her way; but Mother wished her to be always
polite. "I am sorry," she replied instead, not saying a word about the
poor little toes which the pretty pink lady had crushed.

"Well, then, if you are sorry, why don't you let me pass?" asked the
girl of the soft eyes.

"If you please, I want to give you a note," said the child, anxiously
searching a small pocket. "It's from Mother, for Madame. She told me to
take it to your door; so I did, several times, but nobody answered. Here
'tis, please, Mademoiselle."

Mademoiselle snatched it from the hand, which was very tiny, and pink,
with dimples where grown up folk have knuckles. She then pushed past the
child, and went on to a door at the end of the passage, which she threw
open, without knocking.

"_Eh bien_, Julie! You have been gone long enough to break the bank
twice over. What luck have you had?" exclaimed the husky voice of a
woman who sat in an easy chair beside a wood fire, telling her own
fortune with an old pack of cards, spread upon a sewing board, on her
capacious lap.

She was in a soiled dressing gown of purple flannel, with several of the
buttons off. In the clear light of a window at the woman's back, her
hair, with a groundwork of crimson, was overshot with iridescent lights.
On a small table at her side a tray had been left, with the remains of
_dejeuner_; a jug stained brown with streaks of coffee; a crumbled
crescent roll; some balls of silver paper which had contained cream
chocolates; ends of cigarettes, and a scattered grey film of ashes. At
her feet a toy black Pomeranian lay coiled on the torn bodice of a red
dress; and all the room was in disorder, with an indiscriminate litter
of hats, gloves, French novels, feather boas, slippers, and fallen
blouses or skirts.

The lady of the roses went to the mirror over the untidy mantel piece,
and looked at herself, as she answered. "No luck at roulette or trente.
But the best of luck outside."

"What