In the face of all this, I do not see how I brought myself to find any fault. To do myself justice, I never did when it was a question of the usual domestic conventions. Louise was better than all the conventions--all the prim English maids in prim white caps--in the world. Just to hear her talk, just to have her call that disreputable old _Mize Boum ma belle_, just to have her announce as _La Dame de la bouillabaisse_ a friend of ours who had been to Provence and had come to feast on her masterpiece and praised her for it,--just each and every one of her charming southern ways made up for the worst domestic crime she could have committed, I admit to a spasm of dismay when, for the first meal she served, she appeared in her petticoat, a dish-cloth for apron, and her sleeves rolled up above her elbows. But I forgot it with her delightful laugh at herself when I explained that, absurdly it might be, we preferred a skirt, an apron, and sleeves fastened at the wrists. It seemed she adored the economy too, and she had wished to protect her dress and even her apron. These things would horrify the model housewife; but then, I am not a model housewife, and they amused me, especially as she was so quick to meet me, not only half, but the whole way. When, however, she took to running out at intervals on mysterious errands, I felt that I must object. Her first excuse was _les affaires_; her next, a friend; and, when neither of these would serve, she owned up to a husband who, apparently, spent his time waiting for her at the street corner; he was so lonely, _le pauvre_! I suggested that he should come and see her in the kitchen. She laughed outright. Why, he was of a shyness _Madame_ could not figure to herself. He never would dare to mount the stairs and ring the front door-bell.