And I thought, but of course I did not say to Héloïse,—How Alix will scold! I heard her step on the stairs, and I fairly ran. But I did not lose my lecture. "Elaine!" cried Alix’s shrill voice, "where are you?" Alix might be a perfect stranger, for the way in which she always calls me _you_. I came out. I knew it was utterly useless to try to hide. "Where have you put those new maccaroons?" "They are not made, Alix," I said, trying to look as if I did not care. "Not made? Saint Martin of Tours help us! What can you have been doing?" I was silent. "I say, what were you doing?" demanded Alix, with a stamp of her foot. "Never mind. I forgot the maccaroons." If I had been speaking to any one but Alix, I should have added that I was sorry. But she is always so angry that it seems to dry up any regret on my part. "You naughty girl!" Alix blazed out. "You very, very naughty girl! There is no possibility of relying on you for one instant. You go dreaming away, and forget everything one tells you. You are silly, _silly_!" The tone that Alix put into that last word! It was enough to provoke all the saints in the calendar. "There will be plenty without them," said I. "Hold your tongue, and don’t give me any impudence!" retorted Alix. I thought I might have said the same. If Alix would speak more kindly, I am sure I should not get so vexed. I can’t imagine what she would say if I were to do something really wicked, for she exhausts her whole vocabulary on my gathering the wrong flowers, or forgetting to make cakes. "Don’t be cross, Alix," I said, trying to keep the peace. "I really did forget them." "Oh dear, yes, I never doubted it!" answered Alix, in that way of hers which always tries my patience. "Life is sacred to the memory of Guy, but my trouble and Umberge’s likings are of no consequence at all! And it does not matter that the Baron de Montbeillard and his lady will be here, and that we shall have a dish too little on the table. Not in the least!" "Well, really, Alix, I don’t think it does much matter," said I. "Of course not. And the Lady de Montbeillard will not go home and tell everybody what a bad housekeeper I am, and how little I care to have things nice for my guests—Oh dear, no!" "If you treat her kindly, I should think her very ungrateful if she did," said I. Alix flounced away with—"I wish you were gone after Guy!" And so did I. But at night, just before I dropped asleep, a new idea came to me—an idea that never occurred to me before. Do I try Alix as much as she tries me? Oh dear! I hope not. It cannot be. I don’t think it is possible. Is it? I wish I had not forgotten those cakes. Alix did seem so put out. And I suppose it was rather annoying—perhaps.