Phoebe turned and faced her countrywoman—for so she considered her—with an exclamation of delight.
“Ah! you speak French, Mademoiselle?” said the girl. “It is a pleasure, a pleasure, to hear it!”
“I am French,” responded Phoebe, warmly. “My father was a Frenchman. My name is Phoebe Latrobe: what is yours?”
“Louise Dupret. I am Lady Delawarr’s woman. I have been here two long, long years; and nobody speaks French but Madame and Mesdemoiselles her daughters. And Mademoiselle Marie will not, though she can. She will talk to me in English, and laughs at me when I understand her not. Ah, it is dreadful!”
“From what part of France do you come?”
“From the mountains of the Cevennes. And you?”
“The same. Then you are of the religion?”
This was the Huguenot form of inquiry whether a stranger belonged to them. Louise’s eyes lighted up.
“We are daughters of the Church of the Desert,” she said. “And we are sisters in Jesus Christ.”
From that hour Phoebe was not quite friendless at Delawarr Court. It was well for her: since the preparations for Berkeley absorbed Gatty, and of Rhoda she saw nothing except during the processes of dressing and undressing. Very elaborate processes they became, for Lady Delawarr kept a private hair-dresser, who came round every morning to curl, friz, puff, and powder each young lady in turn; and the unfortunate maiden who kept him waiting an instant was relegated to the last, and certain to be late for breakfast. Following in the footsteps of his superiors, he did not notice Phoebe, nor count her as one of the group; but after the meeting on the stairs, as soon as Lady Delawarr released her, Louise was at hand with a beaming face, entreating permission to arrange Mademoiselle, and she sent her downstairs looking very fresh and stylish, almost enough to provoke the envy of Rhoda.