“_Ah, oui!_ I understand. She is a mermaid to-night, with sea-weeds and shell-fish. I can well imagine Mademoiselle Trixy _difficile_; being an angel to men and an angel to one’s _femme-de-chambre_ are two different things. Fanchette, make me very beautiful to-night.” “_Mais, oui!_ Mademoiselle has the grand capability to be so.” And in a few moments her skilful fingers have gathered up Gabrielle’s lustrous tresses into a sort of crown, which becomes her well. “How nice I should look in the Delaval coronet,” Gabrielle thinks, as she admires herself in the glass, with a truthfulness befitting a better cause. Meanwhile Zai has descended the staircase, and, as she reaches the great square hall, Lord Beranger enters the house. “Good evening, papa,” she says, lovingly twining her arm into his, “I was afraid I was late, but it seems it must be early, as you have only just come in.” “Good evening, my pet,” says papa to this, his favourite daughter. “You are quite right in thinking it is late, but we have been taking our post-prandial cigar and coffee under the stars. Might I ask what you are so radiant for? Is there a big party on to-night?” “The Meredyths’ ‘At Home,’ you know. Is it possible you have forgotten that Trixy is to make her _débût_ to-night as an engaged young person?” “Ugh!” Lord Beranger mutters to himself, half aloud. “Poor Trixy!” Then he remembers his wife’s admonition, and goes on blandly: “Stubbs isn’t a bad sort, Zai; a little too much flesh, and a little, too little, breeding; but we can’t have everything, child, and money makes the mare to go.” “I hate money,” Zai answers in a low voice. “I would not marry Mr. Stubbs if he were ten times richer.” “Tut, tut, my pet. You must get romantic notions out of your head--romance doesn’t pay now-a-days. Good hard cash down, that’s the thing, and when you have nailed that, it’s time enough to indulge in other fancies.” “Papa, how wicked you are. That’s one of Mamma’s sentiments. I don’t like to hear you say anything that is not right.” “Don’t you? well, I won’t. Kiss me, little one, as a proof of forgiveness.” Zai goes on tiptoe, and putting her arms round his neck, kisses him heartily, forgetful of the detriment to her bouquet of _Noisette_ roses.