and
don't make a fuss."

For a moment "Maida" hesitated, then she did come along, and as
obediently as the brown child, though not so willingly, sat down in the
_chaise longue_, carefully arranged for her reception by Terry.

"Evidently a poor relation, or she wouldn't submit to being ordered
about like that," I thought. "Of course, any one might see that she's
too pretty to be an heiress. They don't make them like that. Such
beauties never have a penny to bless themselves with. Just Terry's luck
if he falls in love with her, after all I've done for him, too! But if
this tour does come off, I must try to block _that_ game."

"I expect I'd better introduce myself and my little thirteen-year-old
daughter, and my niece," said the auburn lady, putting down her parasol,
and opening a microscopic fan. "I'm Mrs. Kathryn Stanley Kidder, of
Denver, Colorado. My little girl, here--she's all I've got in the world
since Mr. Kidder died--is Beatrice, but we call her Beechy for short. We
used to spell it B-i-c-e, which Mr. Kidder said was Italian; but people
_would_ pronounce it to rhyme with mice, so now we make it just like the
tree, and then there can't be any mistake. Miss Madeleine Destrey is the
daughter of my dead sister, who was _ever_ so much older than I am of
course; and the way she happened to come over with Beechy and me is
quite a romance; but I guess you'll think I've told you enough about
ourselves."

"It's like the people in old comic pictures who have kind of balloon
things coming out of their mouths, with a verse thoroughly explaining
who they are, isn't it?" remarked Miss Beechy in a little soft, childish
voice, and at least a dozen imps looking out of her eyes all at once.
"Mamma's balloon never collapses."

To break the awkward silence following upon this frank comparison, I
bustled away with hospitable murmurs concerning tea. But, my back once
turned upon the visitors, the pink, white, and green glamour of their
presence floated away from before my eyes like a radiant mist, and I saw
plain fact instead.

By plain fact I mean to denote Felicite, my French cook-housekeeper, my
all of domesticity in the Chalet des Pins.

Felicite might be considered plain by strangers, and thank heaven she is
a fact, or life at my little villa on the Riviera would be a hundred
times less pleasant than it is; but she is nevertheless as near to being
an angel as a fat, elderly, golden-hearted, sweet-natured,
profane-speaki