“Madelaine!” exclaimed Betty, “what a pretty frock!”
“Ah, madame—I go to a dressmaker’s by day now—the old miser is content to have me work for her at night.” She shrugged her slender shoulders. “It saves her my meals.”
She had not become a dressmaker for nothing. Every stitch and flounce told, bringing out the beauty and lithe grace of the girl.
“Yes, madame. But—mon Dieu, you are of a surety amongst the stars here!” Her pretty scarlet lips smiled. “Amongst the stars—as the angels always are. But—ah, yes—I went and put on decent clothes and took your letter to Mademoiselle Babette, madame; but she was out—she is preparing for the Bal des Quatz Arts to-night—has gone out with Monsieur Horace and the others.... Mon Dieu, yes; you live amongst the stars, madame.”
“Madelaine, have you kept the carriage waiting?”
“Yes, madame—it is below.”
Betty arose wearily from her seat:
“Will you help me to carry down my trunk?”
Madelaine looked at her sharply: