“Well, she might have thrown in the wool,” insisted Madame d’Hautreve, querulously, “she might have given the wool against your time.”
“But she didn’t ask me to experiment with a new model, mama dear. It wasn’t her fault if I didn’t succeed.”
“You did succeed, Diane. It was perfect; it was most life-like, only people haven’t the taste to recognize your talent.”
“Madame Jourdain said that her customers didn’t like the bird’s bill, and they thought the neck too long,” returned Mam’selle Diane, humbly.
“There, there; that shows how little the best educated people know of ornithology. It is a species of crane; the neck is not out of proportion.”
“They thought so, mama, and one can’t contend with people’s tastes and opinions. I shall not try anything new again. I shall stick to my ducks and canaries.”
“You know I advised you to do so in the first place. You were too ambitious, Diane, you were too ambitious!”
“Yes; you are right, mama, I was too ambitious!” sighed Mam’selle Diane.
One morning in August, about a year from the time that Madame Jozain moved into Good Children Street, Tante Modeste was in her dairy, deep in the mysteries of cream-cheese and butter, when Paichoux entered, and laying a small parcel twisted up in a piece of newspaper before her waited for her to open it.