Hébé Duncan at that moment bounded into the room. There was nothing whatever French about her. She was a laughing, highly coloured, rollicking English girl. Her age might have been eighteen—it might have been more, it might have been less. She stared hard for a minute out of her bright eyes at the little Comtesse and then said, "Oh, la, la!" and afterwards went off into fits of laughter.
The little Comtesse murmured, "It is la mal à la tête."
Dorothy put soft cushions under the head that did not ache and a rug over the little feet that pined to scamper about. As soon as ever she had done this, Hébé pulled her out of the room.
Then began a violent conversation on the wide landing outside the Marquis' salon.
Dorothy said, "Impossible!"
Hébé said, "It is true, a certainty!"
Then she re-appeared holding several huge bandboxes in her hands.
"I bought these," she said, "from a très petite Comtesse at the établissement of la Madame Marcelle. Would you like to look at them?"
"No," said Margot, and she suddenly began to cry. "I hate établissements, I hate deceit. I have not got mal à la tête. Is there any cold water near?"