“Her greeting is as regal as her bearing,” was Maisie’s thought. She favored Tamea with a courteous little nod and her bright smile—then held out her hand. Tamea hesitated, then extended her own.
“You are Maisie?” she queried.
“Yes, I am Maisie. How did you know, Miss Larrieau?”
“I guessed,” Tamea answered simply. “You are a much nicer woman than I had expected to meet.”
Maisie flushed, partly with pleasure, partly with embarrassment. “I shall try to be nice to you, Miss Larrieau, always.”
“You may call me Tamea, if you please. I shall call you Maisie.”
“Will ye listen to that!” Julia declared happily. “Sure, Tammy’s no different from the rest of us. She’s in love wit’ you at sight, Miss Morrison, so she is.”
“I think with you, Tamea, that we should dispense with formality. I shall be happy to be your friend and to help you to adjust your life to new conditions.”
“I accept your friendship.” Tamea’s words came slowly, gravely. “You are not a woman of common blood.”
Maisie stepped close to her, removed from her fingers the sodden little ball of a handkerchief and replaced it with a fresh one of filmy lace from her handbag. “Tell my chauffeur to go back to the house and fetch Céleste, my maid,” she ordered Julia. “Between Céleste and me this wonderful hair shall be done exactly right. When you come upstairs again, Julia, bring up those boxes and the two girls in the living room. Rubenstein shall wait.”