She would have been astonished if she had seen the sudden energy with which Pixie immediately turned right about face and walked away in the opposite direction, taking a crumpled square of newspaper from her pocket, and reading over a certain advertisement with eager attention.
“‘Wanted a French lady.’—I’m not whole French, but I’m half. Haven’t I been in their country nearly two years? ‘To amuse two children.’—I’d amuse a dozen, and never know I was doing it! ‘And perfect them in the language for a couple of hours every morning.’ Look at that, now, it’s better than the jetted lace! Two hours wouldn’t interfere with me one bit, for I’ve all the day to do nothing. ‘Apply personally between four and six at Seven, Fitzjames Crescent.’ Only ten minutes’ walk from me own door, as if it had been made on purpose to suit me! And quite a good-looking house it is, with real silk curtains in the windows.”
She tripped undauntedly up the steps and pressed the electric bell, and, all unseen to her eyes, the little god of fate peered at her from behind the fat white pillars of the portico, and clapped his little hands in triumph.
Chapter Fifteen.
Pixie Scores a Success.
A butler came to the door, a solemn-looking butler, with a white tie and immaculate black clothes, but he seemed rather stupid for his age, for he asked twice over before he could grasp the fact that Pixie had called in answer to the advertisement, and then stared fixedly at her all the time he was escorting her to the room where the other lady applicants were waiting their turns.
Pixie gasped as she looked round and saw ladies, ladies everywhere, on the row of leather chairs ranged along by the wall, on the sofa, on the two easy-lounges by the fireside,—old ladies, young ladies, middle-aged ladies, elderly ladies, shabby and dressy, fat and thin, but all distinctly past their first youth, and all most obviously French. They gaped at the new-comer, even as the butler had done, and she bowed graciously from side to side, and said, “Bon jour, mesdames!” in her most Parisian manner, then squeezed herself into a little corner by the window and listened entranced to the never-ending stream of conversation.
A room full of Englishwomen would under the circumstances have preserved a depressed and solemn silence, but these good ladies chattered like magpies, with such shruggings of shoulders, such waving of hands, such shrillness of emphasis, that Pixie felt as if she were once more domiciled in the Avenue Gustave.