We were only—les autres. They were childless and servantless, and they had reduced simple living to the finest of fine arts. ‘You!’ ‘Yes, it is I, mademoiselle,’ he continued in his own tongue. He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe. “I wouldn’t have been without this trip for worlds. Will you please—Not now, or I must go. In each corner stood a stout square post reaching to the ceiling. Jacques, Jacques!’ His face was white, but his eyes were open, if a trifle glazed. Five minutes ago, his butler had entered the green saloon, an austere apartment, with dark forest-green wallpaper flocked with a swirling design, and heavy mahogany furniture. Mrs. She wanted to know.
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