The moment Lizzette saw her caller she cried in the freedom of her native tongue: “Madam Mason! Comment cela va-t-il, aujourdhui?”
“Assez bien. Et-vous?” was the answer in the same tongue.
Lizzette hesitated a moment and then said by way of explanation: “Zese friends of mine zay speak ze French wiz me.”
“Ah!” and the lady glanced somewhat superciliously at Margaret and Elsie. “It is immaterial to me which tongue we use. I have only a few moments to spare at best. I was not aware, Lizzette, that you were musical.”
“Eh bien, eet ees only Miss Elsie and Antoine. I haf not ze time.”
“I should suppose not,” said the lady, still using the French tongue, in the evident belief that it might cover some slight impertinences of question and manner.
“Where did they learn that battle song they were playing as I came in?”
“Zey learn zemselves,” answered Lizzette. “Zey haf un grand penchant for music, and eet ees bread and meat to Antoine.”
“Humph! Who are these girls?”
The blood mounted to Lizzette’s face, but restraining herself she said with a quiet dignity, that in the little market woman was evidently vastly amusing to Mrs. Mason, “Zey are my guests.”