"Willingly," said Cartaret, in the language thus imposed; "but why, when you speak English so well?" "Because"--the Lady was half serious about it--"I had to promise Chitta that, under threat of her leaving Paris; and if she left Paris, I should of course have to leave it, too. French she understands a little, as you know, but not English, and"--the Lady's pink deepened--"she says that English is the one language of which she cannot even guess the meaning when she hears it, because English is the one language that can be spoken with the lips only, and spoken as if the speaker's face were a mask." He said he should have thought that Chitta would pick it up from her. "Why," he said, "it comes so readily to you: you answered in it instinctively that time when I first saw you. Don't you remember?" "I remember. I was very frightened. Perhaps I used it when you did because we had an English governess at my home and speak it much in the family. We speak it when we do not want the servants to understand, and so we have kept it from Chitta." She was pouring the coffee. "Tell me truly: do I indeed speak it well?" "Excellently. Of course you are a little precise." "How precise?" "Well, you said, that time, 'It is I'; we generally say 'It's me'--like the French, you understand." If Princesses could pout, he would have said that she pouted. "But I was right." "Not entirely. You weren't colloquial." "I was correct," she insisted. "'It is I' is correct. My grammar says that the verb 'To be' takes the same case after it as before it. If the Americans say something else, they do not speak good English." Cartaret laughed. "The English say it, too." "Then," said the Lady with an emphatic nod, "the English also." It was a simple breakfast, but excellently cooked, and Cartaret had come to it with a healthy hunger. Chitta was present only in the capacity of servant; but managed to be constantly within earshot and generally to have hostess and guest under her supervision. He felt her eyes upon him when she brought in the highly-seasoned omelette, when she replenished the coffee; frequently he even caught her peeping around the screen that hid the stove. It was a marvel that she could cook so well, since she was forever deserting her post. She made Cartaret blush with the memory of his gift to her; she made him feel that his gift had only increased her distrust; when he fell to talking about himself, he made light of his poverty, so that, should Chitta's evident scruples against him ever lead her to betray what he had done, the Lady might not feel that he had sacrificed too much in giving so little. Nevertheless, Cartaret was in no mood for complaint: he was sitting opposite his Princess and was happy. He told her of his life in America, of football and of Broadway. It is a rare thing for a lover to speak of his sister, but Cartaret even mentioned Cora. "Is she afraid of you, monsieur?" asked the Lady.