"N or M," nearly slipped out of my mouth, but I put Satan with all his
mischief behind me, and answered that I was Lys d'Angely.
"Oh, the surname doesn't matter. As you're a French girl, I shall call
you by your first name. It's always done."
(The first time in history, I'd swear, that a d'Angely was ever told his
name didn't matter!)
"You seem to speak English very well for a French woman?" (This almost
with suspicion.)
"My mother was American."
"How extraordinary!"
(This was apparently a _tache_. Evidently lady's-maids are expected
_not_ to have American mothers!)
"Let me hear your French accent."
I let her hear it.
"H'm! It seems well enough. Paris?"
"Paris, madame."
"Don't call me 'madame.' Any common person is madame. You should say
'your ladyship'."
I said it.
"And I want you should speak to me in the third person, like the French
servants are supposed to do in good houses."
"If mad--if your ladyship wishes."
(Thank heaven for a sense of humour! My one wild desire was to laugh.
Without that blessing, I should have yearned to slap her.
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