She was sure Claude did not deserve the pains she was taking over him, particularly in view of his conduct that morning. But Janet’s indignation had failed to blot from her mind a picture of the night before at bedtime, when Claude had pathetically drawn attention to the spectacle of both his great toes protruding rudely from the tips of his socks. This picture of Claude walking about Brussels with protruding toes offended her sense of the fitness of things. And, as she did not believe that the fitness of things should be tempered with revenge, she made the necessary purchases without pluming herself on her magnanimity. Parcels in hand, she came close to a section set apart by a low railing. A somewhat depressed looking woman in front of the railing was talking humbly to a magnificent young man behind it. From a sign which read _Bureau d’Emploi_, Janet guessed that this was the section in which applications for employment were received. If only she knew the language well enough to apply for a position herself, what a lot of problems this would solve! The magnificent young man, who was patently the absolute monarch of the section, looked disapprovingly at the somewhat slatternly applicant who was abasing herself before him. With an air as superb as his sartorial equipment, he concluded the interview. So Cophetua might have concluded an interview with an unavailable beggar maid. The dismissed applicant was the picture of dejection as she walked past Janet, who pitied her from her soul. Suddenly Cophetua saw Janet. Was she a lady or was she a beggar maid? He reasoned that ladies rarely burden their arms with a load of parcels, nor were they in the habit of making lingering stops in front of a _Bureau d’Emploi_. On the other hand, the object of his speculation was young, supple, well dressed; her gray eyes glancing his way thrilled him as no salesgirl beggar-maid had ever thrilled him before. Decidedly, if she _was_ a beggar maid, she was a most uncommon one. Cophetua saw that she was still looking at him, not artfully, and yet not disinterestedly either. The problem was disconcerting and insoluble; the call of the blood was peremptory and imperious. He resolved to chance it. Unbending as much as so magnificent a young man could unbend, he called out to Janet in a most inviting tone. Alas, she couldn’t understand a single word. All she could catch was the note of interrogation. "_Je ne comprends pas français_—I’m sorry, but I don’t understand," she informed him in polyglot. She wondered whether he could possibly be offering her employment, although she doubted this, for his glances were far from businesslike. Again Cophetua spoke, more slowly. Yet on the same suave, interrogative note. He eyed her with immense favor. She understood his looks; and, as it was clearly not a case for the use of her pet _comme ça_, she lost all desire to understand his words.