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"The poor angel," she repeated.
Later, I gave Stenson a succinct account of what had occurred. I
owed it to my reputation. Then I went upstairs and dressed for
dinner. I consider I owe that to Stenson. It was eight o'clock
before I sat down, but Antoinette's ducklings were delicious and
brought consolation for the upheaval of the day. I was unfolding
the latest edition of _The Westminster Gazette_ with which I
always soothe the digestive half-hour after dinner, when
Antoinette entered to report progress.
She was sound asleep, the poor little one. Oh, but she was
tired. She had eaten some _consomme_, a bit of fish and an
omelette. But she was beautiful, gentle as a lamb; and she had a
skin _on dirait du satin_. Had not Monsieur noticed it?
I replied, with some over-emphasis, that I had not.
"Monsieur rather regards the inside of his books," said
Antoinette.
"They are generally more worth regarding," said I.
Antoinette said nothing; but there was a feminine quiver at the
corners of her fat lips.


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