momentarily intensely happy,
miserable, or angry, as the case might be. Whichever it might be, she
generally shed abundant tears.

Margaret went back to Versailles feeling very happy, but determined to
say nothing of what had happened except to Mrs. Rushmore, who need only
know that Madame Bonanni had spoken in an encouraging way and wished to
see her at the theatre. For the girl herself found it hard to believe
half of what the prima donna had told her, and was far from believing
that she was on the eve of signing her first engagement.

Madame Bonanni had breakfasted at half-past eleven, but Mrs. Rushmore
lunched at half-past one, and Margaret found her at table with
Lushington and three or four other people who had dropped in. There was
an English officer who had got his Victoria Cross in South Africa and
was on his way to India, with a few days to spare by the way; there was
a middle-aged French portrait-painter who had caressing ways and an
immense reputation; there was a woman of the world whose husband was an
Austrian and was in the diplomatic service; and there was a young
archaeologist just from Crete, who foregathered with Lushington.

They were at the end of luncheon when Margaret came in, they were
sipping fine wine from very thin glasses, they were all saying their
second-best things, because each one was afraid that if he said his
very best before dinner one of the others would steal it; and Mrs.
Rushmore was in her element.

Margaret came in with her hat on and sat down in her place, which was
opposite Mrs. Rushmore. The men subsided again into their chairs and
looked at her. Lushington was next to her, but she smiled at the others
first, nodding quietly and answering their greetings.

'You seem pleased,' Lushington said, when he saw that she would hear
him.

'Do I?' She smiled again.

'That sort of answer always means a secret,' Lushington replied.
'Happiness for one, don't you know?'

'By the way,' asked the English officer on her other side, 'was not
your father the famous army coach?'

'No,' Margaret replied. 'I'm often asked that.'

'What is an army coach?' inquired the French painter, who spoke some
English. 'Is it not an ambulance? But I do not understand.'

Mrs. Rushmore began to explain in an undertone.

'Miss Donne's father was an Oxford don,' observed Lushington, rather
stiffly.

At this quite unintentional pun the French painter laughed so much that
every one turned and looked