CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
I
On a cool February morning a private office in the Maison Paulette, Boulevard Houssman, was occupied by five persons of the feminine sex. Four of the five, gorgeous as to clothes and cosmetics, moved busily about in comet-like orbits that brought them periodically near the desk.
The fifth, seated at the desk itself, dominated the room. She was a striking blonde, whose handsome dull-green dress challenged the glint of gold alike in her pupils and her hair.
Seemingly occupied with a book of accounts, this lady was really engaged in inventing petty tasks for the four young women dancing attendance upon her. (Mariette, ou est le livre bleu? Mon dieu, Gabrielle! les ciseaux; quelqu'un a enleve mes petites ciseaux. Toinette, apportez-moi le boite aux lettres. Tiens, Amelie! Prends ce mouchoir, etc., etc.) These requests for service continued in a fairly steady stream, amidst much hurrying and scurrying, sharp cries of tout de suite, Madame, and a general atmosphere of sulky obsequiousness.
In the thick of the confusion the door was opened by a young woman in a soft suit of brown heather. She stood on the threshold for a moment and, as she looked questioningly towards the lady in command, a slight frown brought a bar of hazel brown over her beautiful gray eyes.
The lady at the desk, who saw everything, affected not to see the figure on the threshold and went on languidly issuing orders.
Thereupon the newcomer, in clear, agreeable English, called out:
"Evidently you don't want me, Cornelia. Good, I'll go back upstairs. I've stacks and stacks of work to do—"
"Araminta, wait! Of course I want you. I want you most particularly."