The lady in the plaid dress, who occupied the next chair, asked her with frank curiosity to recount then how she found herself in such a position, and, being assured that she was indeed applying for the situation, prophesied that it would never march! She turned and whispered loudly to her companion, “Behold her, the poor pigeon! One sees well that she has the white heart!” But the companion was less amiable, and enraged herself because there were already applicants enough, and with each new-comer her own chance of success became less assured.
At intervals of five or ten minutes the butler returned and marshalled the next in order to the presence of the lady of the house, but, short as were the interviews, it was a weary wait before it came to Pixie’s turn, and she wondered fearfully whether Bridgie had taken fright at her absence, and was even now searching the streets in a panic of alarm. The hands of the clock pointed to ten minutes to six before the butler gave the longed-for signal, and she smiled at him in her most friendly manner as she crossed the room towards him. Without any exchange of words she divined that he took more interest in herself than in any of the other applicants, and also that for some mysterious reason he was sorry for her, and imagined that she was making a mistake, and the smile was meant at once as thanks and reassurement.
They walked together down the slippery floor, such a slippery, shiny floor, that one felt as if skates would be almost more in keeping than boots, and finally arrived at a cosy little room at the back of the house, where a tired-looking gentleman and a bored-looking lady stood ready to receive her. They looked at each other, they looked at the butler, they looked again at the little pig-tailed figure, with short skirts and beaming, childlike face, and their faces became blank with astonishment.
“Bon jour, mademoiselle!” began the lady uncertainly.
“Good day to ye!” said Pixie in response, and at that the bewilderment became more marked than ever. The lady sat down and drew a long, weary sigh. She was handsome and young, but very, very thin, and looked as if she had hardly enough energy to go through any more interviews.
“Then—then you are not French after all?”
“I forgot!” sighed Pixie sadly. She sat down and hitched her chair nearer the fire in sociable fashion. “It’s just like me to make up me mind, and then forget at the right moment! I intended to let you hear me speak French, before I broke it to you that I’m Irish and all my people before me.”
“I almost think I should have discovered it for myself!” said the lady, looking as if she were not quite sure whether to be amused or irritated. “But if that is so, what is your business here? I advertised for a French lady.”
“You did. I read the advertisement, but if I’m not French I’m just as good, for I’ve just last month returned from Paris, and the lady where I was staying was most particular about my accent. Over in Ireland I was so quick in picking up the brogue that I had to be sent to England to get rid of it, and I was just as handy with another language. If I’d remembered to answer you in French, you would never have known the difference between me and those old ladies who came in first.”
“Old ladies, indeed! I’ll never advertise again if this is what it means!” sighed the lady sotto voce. She looked across the room, met a gleam of amusement in her husband’s eyes, and said in a tolerant voice, “Well, then, let me hear you now! I am a pretty good French scholar myself, so you won’t find me easy to deceive!”