Miss Chantry was a blunt woman. Her consideration for me rested on my
being her brother's pupil. She spoke more readily than he did. From our
cove we looked over the railing at an active world.

"Madame Eagle is a picture," remarked Miss Chantry. "---- Eagle! What a
name for civilized people to give a christened child! But these French
are as likely as not to call their boys Anne or Marie, and it wouldn't
surprise me if they called their girls Cat or Dog. Eagle or Crow, she is
the handsomest woman on the floor."

"Except Mademoiselle Annabel," the doctor ventured to amend.

"That Annabel de Chaumont," his sister vigorously declared, "has neither
conscience nor gratitude. But none of the French have. They will take
your best and throw you away with a laugh."

My master and I watched the brilliant figures swimming in the glow of
wax candles. Face after face could be singled out as beautiful, and the
scant dresses revealed taper forms. Madame de Ferrier's garments may
have been white or blue or yellow; I remember only her satin arms and
neck, the rosy color of her face, and the powder on her hair making it
white as down. Where this assembly was collected from I did not know,
but it acted on the spirits and went like volatile essence to the brain.

"Pheugh!" exclaimed Miss Chantry, "how the French smell!"

I asked her why, if she detested them so, she lived in a French family,
and she replied that Count de Chaumont was an exception, being almost
English in his tastes. He had lived out of France since his father came