‘She did not look like mamma, certainly,’ said Sophy. ‘Mamma looked no more aware that she had on those pretty things than if she had been in her old grey--’ ‘Mamma--yes--Mrs. Drury might try seventy years to look like mamma, or Genevieve either! Put Genevieve into satin or into brown holland, you couldn’t help her looking ten times more the lady than Mrs. Drury ever will! But come in, I have got a bit of the cake for them here, and they will like to see you all figged out, as they have missed all the rest of the show. Aunt Maria might have cared for her old mistress!’ Sophy wished to be amiable, and refrained from objecting. It was a holiday in honour of cette chere eleve of five-and-twenty years since, and the present pupils were from their several homes watching for the first apparition of the four greys from the King’s Head, with the eight white satin rosettes at their eight ears. Madame Belmarche and her daughter were discovered in the parlour, cooking with a stew pan over the fire a concoction which Sophy guessed to be a conserve of the rose-leaves yearly begged of the pupils, which were chiefly useful as serving to be boiled up at any leisure moment, to make a cosmetic for Mademoiselle’s complexion. She had diligently used it these forty-five years, but the effect was not encouraging, as brown, wrinkled, with her frizzled front awry, with not stainless white apron, and a long pewter spoon, she turned round to confront the visitors in their wedding finery. But what Frenchwoman ever was disconcerted? Away went the spoon, forward she sprang, both hands outstretched, and her little black eyes twinkling with pleasure. ‘Ah! but this is goodness itself,’ said she, in the English wherein she flattered herself no French idiom appeared. ‘You are come to let us participate in your rejoicing. Let me but summon Genevieve, the poor child is at every free moment trying to perfectionnate her music in the school-room.’ Madame Belmarche had arisen to receive the guests with her dignified courtesy and heartfelt felicitations, which were not over when Genevieve tripped in, all freshness and grace, with her neat little collar, and the dainty black apron that so prettily marked her slender waist. One moment, and she had arranged a resting-place for Sophy, and as she understood Gilbert’s errand, quickly produced from a corner-cupboard a plate, on which he handed it to the two other ladies, who meanwhile paid their compliments in the most perfect style. The history of the morning was discussed, and Madame Belmarche described her sister’s wedding, and the curiosity which she had shared with the bride for the first sight of ‘le futur,’ when the two sisters had been brought from their convent for the marriage. ‘But how could she get to like him?’ cried Sophy. ‘My sister was too well brought up a young girl to acknowledge a preference,’ replied Madame Belmarche. ‘Ah! my dear, you are English; you do not understand these things.’