“Yes, Justine; but what can I do, my good soul? I would not care if they were married; it would not matter a bit. Now, don’t exaggerate, Justine—great patches do you say?”
Justine tightened her lips and plunged one hand into the pocket of her apron to draw forth a tuft of soft fair hair and hold it up before her ladyship.
“Oh, Justine!” she half shrieked, sighing and heaving billowy, “this is dreadful. Poor child, she will be nearly bald. Oh, Justine, whatever you do, preserve your hair. I know of a case where a lady of title became an old maid when she might have had a great establishment, all through losing her hair.”
“I will take the greatest care, milady.”
“My drops, Justine, my drops. This is really too much for my nerves.”
Justine hurried to a case, and brought out a flaçon of spirits of red lavender, a goodly portion of which her ladyship took upon lumps of sugar, sighed, and felt better.
“What is to be done, my good Justine? It must be a profound secret.”
“What more of ease, milady, than for Miladi Maude to go out for ze health promenade every morning, and call upon Monsieur Hector Launay. I tink he might be trusted if he is well pay.”
“Oh, no, no,” exclaimed her ladyship, sharply. “I could not trust her; she is too weak.”
“Wis her faithful attendant, milady?”