ke known to a young French lady travelling
alone any news that would interest one of her nationality.

"Certainly," answered I. "Take the telegram to her that she may read
it for herself."

"But, sir, she knows no English, and although I understand a little
French, I cannot speak it."

"Then bring me the telegram, and point out to me the lady."

"It is the lady who arrived yesterday," answered the waiter. "She
came, as I understand, with an old lady and gentleman, but they have
left this morning for the Isle of Wight, and she remains alone."

He indicated the fair traveller, and I might have guessed her
nationality from the fact that, unlike the Englishwomen present, she
was breakfasting in her hat. She was a pretty woman--no longer quite
young--with a pale oval face and deep brown hair. As I approached she,
having breakfasted, was drawing her veil down over her face, and
subsequently attended to her hat with pretty, studied movements of the
hands and arms which were essentially French.

She returned my bow with quiet self-possession, and graciously looked
to me to speak.

"The waiter tells me," I said in French, "that I am fortunate enough
to possess some news which may be of interest to you."

"If it is news of France, Monsieur, I am _sur des epingles_ until I
hear it."

I laid the telegram before her, and she looked at it with a pretty
shake of the head which wafted to me some faint and pleasant scent.

"Translate, if you please," she said. "I blush for an ignorance of
which you might have spared me the confession."

It was a pretty profile that bent over the telegram, and I wished that
I had arrived sooner, before she had lowered her veil. She followed my
translation with a nod of the head, but did not raise her eyes.

"And this word?" pointing out the name of my agent with so keen an
interest that she touched my hand with her gloved fingers. "This word
'Sander,' what is that?"

"That," I answered, "is the name of my agent, 'Sander,' the sender of
the telegram."

"Ah--yes, and he is in London? Yes."

"And is he reliable?--excuse my pertinacity, Monsieur--you know, for a
Frenchwoman--who has friends at the front--" she gave a little shiver.
"Mon Dieu! it is killing."

She gave a momentary glance with wonderful eyes, which made me wish
she would look up again. I wondered whom she had at the front.

"Yes, he is reliable," I answered. "You may take this news,
Mademoiselle, as absolutely true."

A