She shrugged her shoulders. “Quite true. But the French and the English, Mr. Percival, are decadent races,” she said coolly, as if there were nothing more to be said on the subject. “Please, Mademoiselle,” she went on, briskly, “will you not let me see how you have prepared his hands? I mean, how have you,—is it right to say fixed them?”
“Dressed them, you mean, Madame Obosky.”
“I see. First you undress them, then you dress them, is it not so?”
Ruth Clinton laughed. The woman was quaint.
“I am about to begin on the left hand. You may watch me, if you care to do so.”
“Will it not make you embarrass?”
“Why should I be embarrassed?” inquired Ruth, flushing.
“I have said the wrong word,” lamented the other. “Nervous,—zat,—that is the word.”
“They're not very lovely things to look at,” said Percival. “All red and blistery and greasy. Miss Clinton is a regular heroine to tackle 'em.”
“I have witnessed some very terrible sights, Mr. Percival,” said the Russian, her eyes narrowing. “Have you ever seen a little Jewish girl,—but no, Mademoiselle, no! I have catch the look in your eyes. I shall not tell you what I have seen. Go on! I shall be silent and take my first lesson.”