The Motor Maid. C. N. Williamson

anyhow, taking off all your clothes and putting on your nightgown. I should never have thought of that. It seems hardly decent. Suppose we should be killed."

      "Most people do try to die in their nightgowns, when you come to think of it," said I.

      "Well, you have a quaint way of putting things. There's something very original about you, my dear young woman. I thought you were mysterious at first, but I believe it's only the effect of originality."

      "I don't know which I'd rather be," I said, "original or mysterious, if I couldn't afford both. But I'm not a young woman."

      "Goodness!" exclaimed the old lady, wrinkling up her eyes to stare at me. "I may be pretty blind, but it can't be make-up."

      I laughed. "I mean je suis jeune fille. I'm not a young woman. I'm a young girl."

      "Dear me, is there any difference?"

      "There is in France."

      "I'm not surprised at queer ideas in France, or any other foreign country, where I've always understood that anything may happen. Why can't everybody be English? It would be so much more simple. But you're not French, are you?"

      "Half of me is."

      "And what's the other half, if I may ask?"

      "American. My father was French, my mother American."

      "No wonder you don't always feel at home in life, divided up like that!" she chuckled. "It must be so upsetting."

      "Everything is upsetting with me lately," I said.

      "With me too, if it comes to that—or would be, if it weren't for Beau. What a pity you haven't got a Beau, my dear."

      I smiled, because (in the Americanized sense of the word) I had one, and was running away from him as fast as I could. But the thought of Monsieur Charretier as a "beau" made me want to giggle hysterically.

      "You say 'was,' when you speak of your father and mother," went on the old lady, with childlike curiosity, which I was encouraging by not going back to bed. "Does that mean that you've lost them?"

      "Yes," I said.

      "And lately?"

      "My father died when I was sixteen, my mother left me two years ago."

      "You don't look more than nineteen now."

      "I'm nearly twenty-one."

      "Well, I don't mean to catechize you, though one certainly must get friendly—or the other way—I suppose, penned up in a place like this all night. And you've really been very kind to me. Although you're a pretty girl, as you must know, I didn't think at first I was going to like you so much."

      "And I didn't you," I retorted, laughing, because I really did begin to like the queer old lady now, and was glad I hadn't dropped a pillow on her head.

      "That's right. Be frank. I like frankness. Do you know, I believe you and I would get on very well together if our acquaintance was going to be continued? If Beau approves of a person, I let myself go."

      "You use him as if he were a barometer."

      "There you are again, with your funny ideas! I shall remember that one, and bring it out as if it were my own. I consider myself quite lucky to have got you for a travelling companion. It's such a comfort to hear English again, and talk it, after having to converse by gesture—except with Beau. I hope you're going on to Italy?"

      "No. I'm getting off at Cannes."

      "I'm sorry. But I suppose you're glad?"

      "Not particularly," said I.

      "I've always heard that Cannes was gay."

      "It won't be for me."

      "Your relations there don't go out much?"

      "I've no relations in Cannes. Aren't you tired now, and wouldn't you like me to make you a little more comfortable?"

      "Does that mean that you're tired of answering questions? I haven't meant to be rude."

      "You haven't been," I assured her. "You're very kind to take an interest."

      "Well, then, I'm not tired, and I wouldn't like to be made more comfortable. I'm very well as I am. Do you want to go to sleep?"

      "I want to, but I know I can't. I'm getting hungry. Are you?"

      "Getting? I've got. If Simpkins were here I'd have her make us tea, in my tea-basket."

      "I'll make it if you like," I volunteered.

      "A French—a half French—girl make tea?"

      "It's the American half that knows how."

      "You look too ornamental to be useful. But you can try."

      I did try, and succeeded. It was rather fun, and never did tea taste so delicious. There were biscuits to go with it, which Beau shared; and I do wish that people (other people) were obliged to make faces when they eat, such as Beau has to make, because if so, one could add a new interest to life by inviting even the worst bores to dinner.

      I was fascinated with his contortions, and I did not attempt to conceal my sudden change of opinion concerning Beau as a companion. When I had humbly invited him to drink out of my saucer, which I held from high tide to low, I saw that my conquest of his mistress was complete. Already we had exchanged names, as well as some confidences. I knew that she was Miss Paget, and she knew that I was Lys d'Angely; but after the tea-drinking episode she became doubly friendly.

      She told me that, owing to an unforeseen circumstance (partly, even largely, connected with Beau) which had caused a great upheaval in her life, she had now not a human being belonging to her, except her maid Simpkins, of whom she would like to get rid if only she knew how.

      "Talk of the Old Man of the Sea!" she sighed. "He was an afternoon caller compared with Simpkins. She's been on my back for twenty years. I suppose she will be for another twenty, unless I slam the door of the family vault in her face."

      "Couldn't Beau help you?" I asked.

      "Even Beau is powerless against her. She has hypnotized him with marrow bones."

      "You've escaped from her for the present," I suggested. "She's on the other side of the Channel. Now is your time to be bold."

      "Ah, but I can't stop out of England for ever, and I tell you she's waiting for me at Dover. A relative (a very eccentric one, and quite different from the rest of us, or he wouldn't have made his home abroad) has left me a house in Italy, some sort of old castle, I believe—so unsuitable! I'm going over to see about selling it for I've no one to trust but myself, owing to the circumstances of which I spoke. I want to get back as soon as possible—I hope in a few weeks, though how I shall manage without any Italian, heaven may know—I don't! Do you speak it?"

      "A little."

      "Well, I wish I could have you with me. You'd make a splendid companion for an old woman like me: young, good to look at, energetic (or you wouldn't be travelling about alone), brave (conquered your fear of Beau), accomplished (three languages, and goodness knows what besides!), presence of mind (the way you whisked my clothes off), handy (I never tasted better tea)—altogether you sum up ideally. What a pity you're rich, and out of the market!"

      "If I look rich my appearance must be more distinguished than I supposed—and it's also very deceiving," said I.

      "You're rich enough to travel for pleasure in wagon-lits, and have silver-fitted bags."

      "I'm not travelling for pleasure. You exaggerate my bags and my wagon-lits, for I've only one of each; and both were given me by a friend who was at the Convent with me."

      "The Convent! Good heavens! are you an escaping nun?"

      I laughed. "I went to school at a Convent. That was when I thought I was