"Excuse me, Jean," said Édouard, "but we are forgetting ourselves. It is only abroad that we are singers. Here we are farmers, and not even yodellists."
"True," said Jean. "Miss Witherup, we must apologize. We recognized in you a matinée girl from New York, and succumbed to the temptation to try to impress you; but here we are not operatic people. We run a farm. Do you come to interview us as singers or farmers?"
"I've come to interview you in any old way you please," said I. "I want to see you at home."
"Well, here we are," said Édouard, with one of his most fascinating smiles. "Look at us."
"Tell me," said I, "how did you know I was a matinée girl? You just said you recognized me as one."
"Easy!" laughed Jean, with a wink at his brother. "By the size of your hat."
"Ah, but you said from the United States," I urged. "How did you know that? Don't English matinée girls wear large hats?"
"Yes," returned Édouard, with a courteous bow, "but yours is in exquisite taste."
Just then the telephone-bell rang, and Jean ran to the receiver. Édouard looked a trifle uneasy, and I kept silent.