"It's a case where the pot can't call the kettle black," rejoined Amy; "your own complexion is not milk-white at the present moment, Martine."
"You are the only one who has her hair properly arranged, Miss Amy. Even your mother has a hasty coiffure, and no collar. Oh, Mrs. Redmond!" and again Martine laughed nervously.
"It matters less how we look than how we feel. I wish that you, like Priscilla, had brought your coat, though I fear there is only one hat among us."
"What a noise the engine makes! Can't we get away soon?"
"I hope so. If we only had a man with us we could send him off for a carriage. Even Fritz would be useful now."
From her mother's tone Amy could not judge whether or not she was in earnest, though in truth the same thought had come to her.
"After all," cried Martine, holding up her watch, "it is not half-past eleven. I had begun to think that to-morrow had come. The flames are not so bright. I believe that the fire is dying down. It started in so well that I almost hoped that we'd see the house in ashes."
"Oh, Martine!"
"But nearly all the furniture has been saved, and the house is probably insured, and—"
"You are shivering, Martine. Come, we must make our way through the crowd. Even if we have to walk down to the large hotel near the station, that will be better than staying here."