The young ladies came in presently. They wore gray gowns admirably
fitted to their fine figures. They brought big bouquets and set
them, with a handsome courtesy, on the table beside me. They took
chairs and sat solemn-faced, without a word, as if it were a Quaker
meeting they had come to. I never saw better models of sympathetic
propriety. I was about to speak. One of them shook her head, a
finger on her lips.

"Do not say one word," she said solemnly in English. "It will make
you ver' sick."

It was the first effort of either of them to address me in English.
As I soon knew, the warning had exhausted her vocabulary. The
baroness went below in a moment. Then the one who had spoken came
over and sat near me, smiling.

"She does not know you can speak French," said she, whispering and
addressing me in her native tongue, as the other tiptoed to the
door. "On your life, do not let her know. She will never permit
us to see you. She will keep us under lock and key. She knows we
cannot speak English, so she thinks we cannot talk with you. It is
a great lark. Are you better?"

What was I to do under orders from such authority? As they bade
me, I hope you will say, for that is what I did. I had no easy
conscience about it, I must own. Day after day I took my part in
the little comedy. They came in Quaker-faced if the baroness were
at hand, never speaking, except to her, until she had gone.
Then--well, such animation, such wit, such bright eyes, such