“Zai, you haven’t the tenth part of an inch the sharpness of Baby! the understanding of _that_ child is miraculous. Well, I’ll tell you all that is passing in Lady Beranger’s head. To-night Trixy makes her appearance in public as the future Honourable Mrs. Stubbs! Heavens! what a name! By the way, what a short matter they made of that. Only three days ago she hated the sight of him, and now her destiny is _une affaire faite_.” “Well?” “Then--but you surely see through it all?” “Not a bit.” “You _are_ a simpleton, Zai. Don’t you see that this is a splendid chance for you and Lord Delaval to be together. I shall be bear leader to Sir Everard, so you will have it all your own way.” “If I thought Lord Delaval was to be my attraction to-night, I would throw over the Meredyths, and go to bed,” Zai says carelessly. “But why? This is simply a little arrangement by which Lady Beranger hopes to allow poor Lord Delaval to insinuate himself in your good graces, Zai. For you know he admires you awfully, now don’t you?” she asks, with a fierce jealousy making her tone tremulous. “And I am sure if he does, _I_ don’t wish to be Mademoiselle de Trop,” she adds impatiently. “Don’t talk nonsense, Gabrielle. Lord Delaval is in love with Baby, if he is in love with anyone but--_himself_.” “In love with Baby!” echoes Gabrielle, scornfully. “I am sure he was never in love with her, and that he has a contempt for her fast, flirty ways.” “Well, if he does not care for Baby, and wants a Beranger, he will have to marry you,” Zai says quietly. “But it’s _necessary_ for you all to marry rich men. You _must_.” “Why?” “Because, when your father and mother go over to the majority, you will be paupers.” “Anyway, I am going to marry Carl,” Zai asserts positively. “And I would not go to the Meredyths’ this evening, only he is staying at Elm Lodge.” Gabrielle bursts out laughing. “Good gracious, what a _fiasco_ it is! Lady Beranger will murder him, I believe. You won’t be allowed to speak to him.” “Nobody could prevent----” Zai pauses, for at this moment Fanchette trips into the room. Gabrielle greets her effusively. “_Dieu merci_, Fanchette! Now I may hope to get my hair done. Zai, don’t wait for me to go down. Have Miss Trixy and Miss Mirabelle gone down yet, Fanchette?” “Just this moment, mademoiselle.” “And how do they look?” “Miss Trixy is _ravissante_. She was very _difficile_, nothing would please her. I tried coiffure _à la Ninon_, or ringlets _à la Cascade_, or the simple plaits English mees likes.” “And which has she gone down as--Ninon or the Cascade?” Gabrielle asks with a smile. “Not one or the other, mademoiselle. She would have her head done with the weeds of the waves, and also _des petites bêtes_, I don’t know what you call them, fastened into it like a _syrène_.