Following their eyes she found the figure of Pastor Lahmann walking swiftly bag in hand in the direction of an opening into a side street.
“Ah!” she cried gaily. “Voilà Monsieur; courrez, Mademoiselle!”
At once she felt that it was cruel to draw attention to Mademoiselle when she was dumpy and upset.
“What a fool I am,” she moaned in her mind. “Why can’t I say the right thing?”
“Ce n’est pas moi,” said Mademoiselle, “qui fait les avances.”
The group walked on for a moment or two in silence. Bertha Martin was swinging her left foot out across the curb with each step, giving her right heel a little twirl to keep her balance.
“You are very clever Bair-ta,” said Mademoiselle, still in French, “but you will never make a prima ballerina.”
“Hulloh!” breathed Jimmie, “she’s perking up.”
“Isn’t she,” said Miriam, feeling that she was throwing away the last shred of her dignity.
“What was the matter?” she continued, trying to escape from her confusion.