Margot felt terribly inclined to laugh. She longed to say "I am a little shopwoman and this is all nonsense," but if she did so, according to grand'mère, she would destroy the life of that adorable one, Alphonse St. Juste. Accordingly she went languidly into the house and when Dorothy asked her in some surprise what ailed her and why she looked so white and good-for-nothing, Margot said in a voice _très douce_, "I have _mal à la tête_, Dorothy." "Ah, but what a pity that is," said Dorothy, "and we are all so gay, so very, very gay. A whole lot of chapeaux have been sent to us from Madame Marcelle--for Hébé, of course. I have told Hébé that you are beautiful, Comtesse, but you don't look beautiful to-day." "It is _mal à la tête_," repeated Margot, trying to make her voice sound as weary as possible. "Ah, _pauvre petite_," said Lady Dorothy. "You must lie on the sofa in this salon. _Mon oncle_ Gustave will not come in, because we will ask him not, but you must see Hébé, for I long much to know your opinion of her." Hébé Duncan at that moment bounded into the room. There was nothing whatever French about her. She was a laughing, highly coloured, rollicking English girl. Her age might have been eighteen--it might have been more, it might have been less. She stared hard for a minute out of her bright eyes at the little Comtesse and then said, "Oh, la, la!" and afterwards went off into fits of laughter. The little Comtesse murmured, "It is _la mal à la tête_." Dorothy put soft cushions under the head that did not ache and a rug over the little feet that pined to scamper about. As soon as ever she had done this, Hébé pulled her out of the room. Then began a violent conversation on the wide landing outside the Marquis' salon. Dorothy said, "Impossible!" Hébé said, "It is true, a certainty!" Then she re-appeared holding several huge bandboxes in her hands. "I bought these," she said, "from a _très petite_ Comtesse at the _établissement_ of la Madame Marcelle. Would you like to look at them?" "No," said Margot, and she suddenly began to cry. "I hate _établissements_, I hate deceit. I have _not_ got _mal à la tête_. Is there any cold water near?" Lady Dorothy stared and Lady Hébé frowned. But Margot was only thinking of Uncle Jacko, dear Uncle Jacko, and of grand-dad The Desmond. "Take me where I can find some water, some icy cold water, please," she said to Dorothy. Dorothy obeyed in a sort of bewilderment. She took Margot to her own room and soon the whitening process was removed from the little cheeks and the brilliant and lovely colour returned. Margot's eyes sparkled as of old. "Now you look like yourself," said Dorothy. "You have no _mal à la tête_." "None, none, none," cried Margot. "Never had." "Ah, but how strange," said Lady Dorothy. "But never mind. Hébé will soon love you. Behold, Hébé, behold! This is my little friend." "And my little shop-keeper," said Hébé in an angry voice.