"But thy bon père is a restaurant keeper. I see not the difference."
Louise gave an angry clench of her little fists.
"Dost thou not know, petite fille, that I myself keep no restaurant personally? Mon père, he works for me; the difference is wide, immense."
"Mon père est mort," answered Margot in a sad voice. "Thou didst ask for a chapeau. Wilt thou select?"
Louise chose a very tall, beehive-shaped head-dress of vivid green, trimmed with quantities of grass of the same shade.
"It will not suit thee, Louise," said Margot, in her gentle, fascinating voice.
"Well, what wouldst thou suggest?" asked Louise, who was too well aware of the excellence of Margot's taste to dare to despise it.
"I would dress thee so," said Margot, and she produced a soft, black hat, very soft, very light, which could be turned up at the side and into which Margot arranged a little piece of ribbon, bright, soft, crimson, which made an arresting note in the blackness of the hat.
"Behold, here is thy chapeau!" said Margot.