youthful sweetness of her companion.

"Val, dear," she said, presently, addressing the girl, "you should make
those sleeves shorter, my dear."

She had a rapid way of speaking, and possessed a slightly husky but
fascinatingly vibrant voice.

"Your arms are very pretty. You should not hide them."

Val Beverley blushed, and laughed to conceal her embarrassment.

"Oh, my dear," exclaimed Madame, "why be ashamed of arms? All women
have arms, but some do well to hide them."

"Quite right, Marie," agreed the Colonel, his thin voice affording an
odd contrast to the deeper tones of his cousin. "But it is the scraggy
ones who seem to delight in displaying their angles."

"The English, yes," Madame admitted, "but the French, no. They are too
clever, Juan."

"Frenchwomen think too much about their looks," said Val Beverley,
quietly. "Oh, you know they do, Madame. They would rather die than be
without admiration."

Madame shrugged her shoulders.

"So would I, my dear," she confessed, "although I cannot walk. Without
admiration there is"--she snapped her fingers--"nothing. And who would