should be
killed."

"Most people do try to die in their nightgowns, when you come to think
of it," said I.

"Well, you have a quaint way of putting things. There's something very
original about you, my dear young woman. I thought you were mysterious
at first, but I believe it's only the effect of originality."

"I don't know which I'd rather be," I said, "original or mysterious, if
I couldn't afford both. But I'm not a young woman."

"Goodness!" exclaimed the old lady, wrinkling up her eyes to stare at
me. "I may be pretty blind, but it can't be make-up."

I laughed. "I mean _je suis jeune fille_. I'm not a young woman. I'm a
young girl."

"Dear me, is there any difference?"

"There is in France."

"I'm not surprised at queer ideas in France, or any other foreign
country, where I've always understood that _anything_ may happen. Why
can't everybody be English? It would be so much more simple. But you're
not French, are you?"

"Half of me is."

"And what's the other half, if I may ask?"

"American. My father was French, my mother American."

"No wonder you don't always feel at home in life, divided up like that!"
she chuckled. "It must be so upsetting."

"Everything is upsetting with me lately," I said.

"With me too, if it comes to that--or would be, if it weren't for Beau.
What a pity you haven't got a Beau, my dear."

I smiled, because (in the Americanized sense of the word) I had one, and
was running away from him as fast as I could. But the thought of
Monsieur Charretier as a "beau" made me want to giggle hysterically.

"You say 'was,' when you speak of your father and mother," went on the
old lady, with childlike curiosity, which I was encouraging by not
going back to bed. "Does that mean that you've lost them?"

"Yes," I said.

"And lately?"

"My father died when I was sixteen, my mother left me two years ago."

"You don't look more than nineteen now."

"I'm nearly twenty-one."

"Well, I don't mean to catechize you, though one certainly must get
friendly--or the other way--I suppose, penned up in a place like this
all night. And you've really been very kind to me. Although you're a
pretty girl, as you must know, I didn't think at first I was going to
like you so much."

"And I didn't you," I retorted, laughing, because I really did begin to
like the queer old lady now, and was glad I hadn't dropped a pillow on
her head.

"That's right. Be frank. I like frankness. Do you know, I bel