"Not at all, Madam."
"Not at all? Then I wonder why you went. You look disappointed, ma belle. You must not look disappointed—It gives awkward lines to the face. Here—take some of this cake to console you; it is particularly good."
Celia took the cake, but not the consolation.
"At eleven o'clock on Tuesday, my child, we depart for Paris. Do not give yourself any trouble. Thérèse will do all your packing. Only you must not walk in Paris, until you have some clothes fit to be seen. I will order stuffs sent in at once when we arrive, and set the women to work for you."
"Do you know, Madam, if you please"—Celia hesitated, and seemed a little uncomfortable.
"Go on, child," said Lady Ingram. "Never stop in the middle of a sentence, unless you choose to affect the pretty-innocence style. Well?"
"Do you know, Madam, whether there be any Protestant service in Paris?"
"I imagine there is a Huguenot prêche somewhere—or was one. I am not sure if I heard not something about His Majesty having stopped them. Do not put your Protestantism too much forward there—the Court do not like it."
"I have nothing to do with the Court, Madam," said Celia, with sudden firmness; "and I am a Protestant, and I cannot disguise my religion."
"Oh dear! your Protestant consciences!" murmured Lady Ingram. "But you have to do with the Court, my friend; it is to the Court that I am taking you. Do you suppose that I live in the atmosphere of a recluse? When I am an old woman of eighty, ma chère, very likely I shall repair to a convent to make my salvation; but not just now, if you please."