"Father Dumény must think I am an extremely rude person. I meant to come weeks ago," Mrs. Tate replied, clasping the hand and looking down steadily into the pale face. "But I've been busy--so busy, I've had hardly a minute to myself. However, I did go to see you perform." "Ah, at the Hippodrome?" "Yes, the very first night. Mr. Tate and I went together. We were both--er--wonderfully impressed. I don't think I ever saw anything more wonderful in my life than that plunge of yours." Mrs. Tate adjusted herself in the chair near the window, and Blanche took the opposite seat. "I'm glad you liked it," she said with a sigh. "Liked it. I can't really say I did like it. I must confess it rather horrified me." "It does some people. My mother never likes to see me do it--though I've done it for a great many years now." "But doesn't it--doesn't it make you nervous sometimes?" "I never used to think of it--before my baby was born." "Ah, the baby! May I see her? Just a peep." "She was asleep when I left," Blanche replied, unconsciously lowering her voice as if the child in the next room might know she was being talked about; "but she will wake up soon. She always wakes about this time. Madeleine is with her now, and she'll dress her and bring her in." For a quarter of an hour they talked about the little Jeanne, and Blanche, inspired by Mrs. Tate's vivid interest and sympathy, grew animated in describing the baby's qualities; when she was born she weighed nearly nine pounds, and she had not been sick a day. Then she had grown so! You could hardly believe it was the same child. She very rarely cried,--almost never at night. Mrs. Tate had heard mothers talk like that before, but Blanche's _naïveté_ lent a new charm to the narration; she kept in mind, however, their first topic, and at the next opportunity she returned to it. "Then what do you do with the child at night?" she asked. "I suppose your servant goes to the circus with you, doesn't she? Of course you can't leave the baby alone." "Ah, no," Blanche replied. "We have a little girl to stay with her." Mrs. Tate was surprised. So these circus people lived as other people did, with servants to wait on them, with a nurse for the child. She had instinctively thought of them as vagabonds. On discovering that they were well cared for, she had a sensation very like disappointment; they seemed to be in no need of help of any sort. She was curious to know more of the life of this girl, who seemed so _naïve_ and had such a curious look of sadness in her eyes. Mrs. Tate deftly led Blanche to talk about her husband, and in a few minutes, by her questions and her quick intelligence, she fancied that she understood the condition of this extraordinary _ménage_.