Mizzi opened the door to Lionel, and when he asked her to bring tea she said, "Immediately, m'sieur," in the most correct of tones. Disapproval still hung heavily about her, mixed, as it seemed, with something of compassion. Her attitude was almost that of a perfect mother to a well-meaning but erring child. "Hang it!" thought Lionel, as he waited in the sitting-room, "she has no business to behave like this. I have a good mind ... a jolly good mind to..." He fell into a reverie and gloomily whistled the opening bars of Chopin's _Marche Funebre_. Presently the maid brought in tea. She set the tray on a little table, placed a cake-stand within easy reach, paused to make sure she had forgotten nothing, and then asked, "Is there anything more, m'sieur?" Lionel, who had come to a resolution while waiting, roused himself. "Yes," he said decisively, "there is. Will you be kind enough Mizzi, to tell me why you surround me with the wet-blanket of your wrath? It is very depressing to a sunny nature." Mizzi looked at him with a frank pity in her eyes. "It is because I am sorry," she replied. "That is no explanation," said Lionel briskly, glad to perceive a thaw, however slight. "Why are you sorry?" "Because you are a fool," observed Mizzi with a gentle pensiveness. Lionel started; he had not expected this. To be called a fool by a friend of one's own age and sex is an every-day matter that causes no uneasiness. To be called a fool by a withered graybeard need not leave a sting, for there is the comfortable reflection that the graybeard may be repeating a mere formula, and that he, too, enjoyed being a fool in his day. To be called a fool by a youthful enemy is only to be expected, and the epithet betrays a palpable lack of judgment in the user, an epithet that returns like a boomerang upon himself. But to be called a fool by a pretty woman is a distinct ordeal. Lionel was shaken. He contrived to compass a laugh. It was not an infectious cachinnation, but still it was a laugh. "Will you tell me why I am a fool?" he asked in a moment. "Certainly," said Mizzi, still in the same gentle tone. "It is because you are the slave of my mistress." "Excuse me," said Lionel politely, "but I have no wish to discuss her. You may go." At this the maid lost some of her admirable self-control. "Bah!" she cried, "you are the same as the rest! Show a man a pretty face and a pair of dazzling eyes, and he is blinded! You think her perfect----" "I know she is," he interrupted, "though why I should trouble to say so to a servant----" The thrust was cruel, but he felt she had deserved it. "A servant!" she repeated, sparkling with anger. "A servant! Yes, it is true--but an honest true woman that knows not how to tell lies like her mistress----" "That is enough," said Lionel, taking her with a gentle firmness by the arm. "My tea, I fear, must be getting cold."