long glass of the wardrobe.

She kept up a running conversation on the things while she fitted me;
ecstatic little cries of admiration; deep sighs of satisfaction; with
all the animation of the Frenchwoman.

"I believe you get at least as much pleasure out of them as I do,
Louise," I said.

"Ah, heaven, more!" she answered. "Mademoiselle is but a child; she does
not know the delight of the feel, the soft lovely feel, of this that
drapes so perfectly. Fortunately Mademoiselle lends herself to the
lovely things. They become her. They cling to her figure as though they
loved it. The result will be charming. M. le Capitaine Theobald he
should be here to see the result. How his eyes would sparkle!"

"M. le Capitaine Theobald, as you call him, Louise," I said, "would not
know one stuff from another. It is quite possible that he would like me
better in the pink print yonder. The beautiful things will be quite
wasted on him. He thinks a white muslin frock with a blue sash the
finest thing a girl can wear."

"It is not bad, for an _ingenue_," said Louise, thoughtfully. "But I do
not agree with you, Mademoiselle, that he would not admire these lovely
things. He might not know, but he would admire all the same."

"Possibly," I said, with patience. I was not greatly interested in
Theobald's point of view. I might have altered in my cousin's eyes; but
he had hardly altered to me from the boy with whom I went climbing and
skating in the old days. I could not imagine myself having any
sentimentality about Theobald.

"Mademoiselle is too sensible for her years," said Louise; and I was
conscious of a subtle disparagement in the speech.

"I am not sensible at all, Louise," I answered, with some indignation.
"I am not sensible where grandpapa is concerned, nor grandmamma, I
tremble if grandpapa is a little later on a hunting day than we expect
him, or on Wednesday when the petty sessions are on at Quinn. I am
terrified about grandmamma if her finger aches; and I lie awake at night
imagining all the terrible things that could befall them."

"Ah, that is affectionateness. I never said you were not affectionate,
Mademoiselle."

But there was some meaning in Louise's accusation, although she would
say no more, pretending that she was always one to let her tongue run
away with her. Louise had been with Miss Champion these twenty years,
and was a privileged person as old servants are amongst us.

When she had finished I went to loo