Who
is that girl with the red cravat? Your maid?"
"It is not a cravat, it's an Indian scarf. If it only
were clean----" Miss Vance looked uneasy and perplexed.
"She is not my maid. She is Fraulein Arpent. The Ewalts
brought her as governess from Paris, don't you remember?
They sent the girls to Bryn Mawr last week and turned her
adrift, almost penniless. She wished to go back to
France. I engaged her as assistant chaperone for the
season."
Mrs. Waldeaux's eyebrows went up significantly. She
never commented in words on the affairs of others, but
her face always was indiscreet. George, who had come up
in time to hear the last words, was not so
scrupulous. He surveyed the young woman through his
spectacles as she passed again, with cold disapproval.
"French or German?" he asked.
"I really don't know. She has a singular facility in
tongues," said Miss Vance.
"Well, that is not the companion _I_ should have chosen
for those innocent little girls," he said
authoritatively, glad to be disagreeable to his cousin.
"She looks like a hawk among doves."
"The woman is harmless enough," said Miss Vance tartly.
"She speaks exquisite French."
"But what does she say in it?" persisted George. "She is
vulgar from her red pompon to her boots. She has the
swagger of a soubrette and she has left a trail of
perfume behind her--pah! I confess I am surprised at
you, Miss Vance. You do not often slip in your
judgment."
"Don't make yourself unpleasant, George," said his mother
gently.
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