"I am Marie Roche," said Mademoiselle quietly. "I lodge here, and work for my living. Is there anything else you would like to ask me?"
Thérèse's eyes flashed, and she gave a loud, angry laugh.
"Eh—listen to her," she cried, "only listen. Yes, there is a good deal I should like to ask—amongst other things, where you got that face, and those hands, if your name is Marie Roche. Aristocrat, that is what you are—aristocrat!" and she pushed her flushed face close to Mademoiselle's rapidly paling one.
"Chut, Thérèse!" commanded Rosalie angrily.
"I say she is an aristocrat," shouted Thérèse, swinging round upon her cousin.
"Fiddlesticks," said Rosalie; "the girl's harmless, and her name's her own, right enough."
"With that face, those hands? Am I an imbecile?"
"Do I know, I?" and Rosalie shrugged her mountainous shoulders. "Bah, Thérèse, what a fuss about nothing. Is it the girl's fault if her mother was pretty enough to take the seigneur's fancy?"
The scarlet colour leapt into Mademoiselle's face. The rough tones, the coarse laugh with which Rosalie ended, and which Thérèse echoed, offended her immeasurably, and she was far from feeling grateful for the former's interference. She pushed past her opponent, and ran up the stairs without pausing to take breath.
Meanwhile Thérèse turned violently upon her cousin.