I heard her run down-stairs. Then, to my astonishment, the footfalls approached again, and Yvette re-entered the room and closed the door.

“I see it is not a bad pleasantry,” she began, with her back to the door. “Mademoiselle is a great lady, and I have always known that; she is an artist; she has soul — so have I. What you could not force from me, neither you nor any man, I will tell you of my own free will. You want to hear of Deschamps?”

I nodded, half-admiring her — perhaps more than half.

“She is a woman to fear. I have told you I used to be her maid before I came to mademoiselle, and even I was always afraid of her. But I liked her. We understood each other, Deschamps and I. Mademoiselle imagines that