"Tell me, Comtesse," I said, "how you came here. When I saw you last you had no idea of coming to Washington."
She did not answer my question at once, but, glancing up at me from under her long lashes in the most adorable fashion, she said softly:
"You used to call me Comtesse when you were angry. Are you angry now?"
"No, not when I was angry," I answered, "but when you were—were—"
"Proud and naughty and altogether disagreeable," she interposed quickly; "and that was very often, was it not, Monsieur?"
"Yes, Comtesse."
"I am not either now, am I? Then why do you not call me Mademoiselle?"
"No, indeed! You are"—I was going to say "adorable," but I finished tamely—"neither. But you are really Comtesse, and it is proper I should call you so." And before I was aware of what I was doing, I fetched a great sigh from the bottom of my boots. She understood, and looked up at me with a pathetic little smile that was sadder than my sigh.
"I am sorry, too; I think I would rather be mademoiselle," she said.
"And of the blood royal!" I added severely, as if accusing her of a crime.