The shape of her coif against the dim light was like some legendary thing’s head, and she was eating. I heard her. That she was old and very stout was all I could see. I could smell just a little, too. Poor Iris. I asked if I might have news of Mrs. Storm. “_Ah, la dame anglaise!_” She ate, but not finally. “_Madame est assez bien, je crois. Mais pardon, monsieur. Je n’ai pas d’instructions à vous donner_----” “But!” I pleaded. “But----” “_Je regrette, monsieur. C’est pas ma faute, vous savez. Pardon._” She was closing the door! Terse as you like. I was helpless. “_Madame est assez bien, je crois!_” Dear Heaven, but didn’t one know those _assez biens_! Isn’t there a company in Heaven wholly recruited from those who have been _assez bien_, and daily augmented by those who are _assez bien_! I lifted up my voice. “_Pardon, monsieur._” I lifted up my voice in vain. So I was active. She stared at me, panting. I withdrew my first impression as to her being a nun. She was no nun. She had a crucifix and a coif, but she was no nun. She was a woman scorned. She said many things and used many words which I did not understand. But I didn’t care. I somehow thought, you know, of Iris dying. “I am here,” I said in effect, “and here I stay until I can speak to a doctor or a matron. I am sorry, but you have made me anxious as to the lady’s health.” “_Mais je vous l’ai déjà dit, jeune homme! Madame est assez bien!_” The ordinary dingy _concierge’s_ lodge: a black stove, a table covered with frayed red cloth, a chair, a stool, an indescribable odour, a plate of food on the table--_bœuf bouilli_, which is French for the salvaging of grey matter from liquid dungeons of onions, carrots and potatoes. I sat on the stool. It was unbelievable that her coif had ever been white. Somehow my eyes were transfixed by the small wooden crucifix which, like a dinghy on a choppy sea, rolled on her bosom as she ate. I wondered how long I would have to wait. I wondered if I could smoke. I wondered if this was one of those convent-nursing-homes. I wondered if one called a nun _madame_ or _mademoiselle_. They were maidens presumably, so I supposed _mademoiselle_. “_On peut fumer, mademoiselle?_” I was wrong. She looked at me with contempt. “_C’est défendu, monsieur._” “_Merci, madame._” I wondered if she really could be a nun. I wondered if one could tip a nun. Out of sheer hatred one acquires a passion for tipping in France and Italy. Detestable it was on this detestable day to sit like this, being hated. I made a muttering noise and gave her a ten-franc note, and it was in a more amiable spirit that she went on with her salvaging. At last there were only two bits of carrot and an awful looking onion left to engage her attention, and I felt that one might perhaps converse.