Mme. Zelie Cadelle was coming in.
She was a woman of some twenty-five or six, rather tall, lithe, and well made. Her face was pale and worn; and her heavy dark hair was scattered over her neck and shoulders. She looked at once sarcastic and good-natured, impudent and naive, with her sparkling eyes, her turned-up nose, and wide mouth furnished with teeth, sound and white, like those of a young dog. She had wasted no time upon her dress; for she wore a plain blue cashmere wrapper, fastened at the waist with a sort of silk scarf of similar color.
From the very threshold,
“Dear me!” she exclaimed, “how very singular!”
M. de Tregars stepped forward.
“What?” he inquired.
“Oh, nothing!” she replied,—“nothing at all!”
And without ceasing to look at him with a wondering eye, but suddenly changing her tone of voice,
“And so, sir,” she said, “my servants have been unable to keep you from forcing yourself into my house!”
“I hope, madame,” said M. de Tregars with a polite bow, “that you will excuse my persistence. I come for a matter which can suffer no delay.”