"Yes," said the girl. "Poor things; they look very cross. I suppose they are dreadfully ill paid?"
Barnaby smothered an irreverent laugh.
"Paid?" he said. "Not a farthing. She introduces them in the season, and, in return, they have to act as dummies. They hate it; but she knows how to drive a bargain. It's a fine advertisement. Half the world comes to stare at the beauties—it's funnier than a picture gallery. And, of course, the pull of being taken up by Mélisande in her society capacity is enormous."
"Who are they?" asked Susan, puzzled.
"Oh, heiresses, of sorts, They used to be whisked away in their own motors at six o'clock. I daresay they are still," said Barnaby. "Here she is."
An inner door flew open, and a stout woman with dark hair and clever, tired eyes, artistically blacked, appeared. She ran up to Barnaby and shook him, then let him go, and inspected him at all angles, with her head on one side as if he were a Paris model.
"Barnaby!" she screamed. "It is really Barnaby. You lunatic, I thought you were dead and buried."
"They all thought that," said Barnaby. "It's a bit rough on me."
"Let me pinch you again!" she said. "I can't have you in here if you're not alive. It's against all my rules, and customers are so timid. Of course, as a ghost you might be very useful. Make the brutes pay up!"
"What an eye to business!" he said, enduring her inspection.