The Motor Maid | Page 4

only themselves. You, too, I see, have courage. I was
inclined to think poorly of you when you first came in, and to wish I'd
been extravagant enough to take the two beds for myself, because I
thought you were afraid of Beau. Yet now you're patting him."
"I was rather afraid at first," I admitted. "I never met an English bull
dog socially before."
"They're more angels than dogs. Their one interest in life is love--for
their friends; and they wouldn't hurt a fly."
"Larger game would be more in their way, I should think," said I. "But
I'm glad he likes me. I like to be liked. It makes me feel more at home
in life."
"H'm! That's a funny idea!" remarked the old lady. "'At home in life!'
You've made yourself pretty well at home in this _wagon-lit_, anyhow,
taking off all your clothes and putting on your nightgown. I should
never have thought of that. It seems hardly decent. Suppose we should
be killed."
"Most people do try to die in their nightgowns, when you come to think
of it," said I.
"Well, you have a quaint way of putting things. There's something very
original about you, my dear young woman. I thought you were
mysterious at first, but I believe it's only the effect of originality."
"I don't know which I'd rather be," I said, "original or mysterious, if I
couldn't afford both. But I'm not a young woman."
"Goodness!" exclaimed the old lady, wrinkling up her eyes to stare at
me. "I may be pretty blind, but it can't be make-up."

I laughed. "I mean je suis jeune fille. I'm not a young woman. I'm a
young girl."
"Dear me, is there any difference?"
"There is in France."
"I'm not surprised at queer ideas in France, or any other foreign country,
where I've always understood that anything may happen. Why can't
everybody be English? It would be so much more simple. But you're
not French, are you?"
"Half of me is."
"And what's the other half, if I may ask?"
"American. My father was French, my mother American."
"No wonder you don't always feel at home in life, divided up like that!"
she chuckled. "It must be so upsetting."
"Everything is upsetting with me lately," I said.
"With me too, if it comes to that--or would be, if it weren't for Beau.
What a pity you haven't got a Beau, my dear."
I smiled, because (in the Americanized sense of the word) I had one,
and was running away from him as fast as I could. But the thought of
Monsieur Charretier as a "beau" made me want to giggle hysterically.
"You say 'was,' when you speak of your father and mother," went on
the old lady, with childlike curiosity, which I was encouraging by not
going back to bed. "Does that mean that you've lost them?"
"Yes," I said.
"And lately?"
"My father died when I was sixteen, my mother left me two years ago."

"You don't look more than nineteen now."
"I'm nearly twenty-one."
"Well, I don't mean to catechize you, though one certainly must get
friendly--or the other way--I suppose, penned up in a place like this all
night. And you've really been very kind to me. Although you're a pretty
girl, as you must know, I didn't think at first I was going to like you so
much."
"And I didn't you," I retorted, laughing, because I really did begin to
like the queer old lady now, and was glad I hadn't dropped a pillow on
her head.
"That's right. Be frank. I like frankness. Do you know, I believe you
and I would get on very well together if our acquaintance was going to
be continued? If Beau approves of a person, I let myself go."
"You use him as if he were a barometer."
"There you are again, with your funny ideas! I shall remember that one,
and bring it out as if it were my own. I consider myself quite lucky to
have got you for a travelling companion. It's such a comfort to hear
English again, and talk it, after having to converse by gesture--except
with Beau. I hope you're going on to Italy?"
"No. I'm getting off at Cannes."
"I'm sorry. But I suppose you're glad?"
"Not particularly," said I.
"I've always heard that Cannes was gay."
"It won't be for me."
"Your relations there don't go out much?"
"I've no relations in Cannes. Aren't you tired now, and wouldn't you

like me to make you a little more comfortable?"
"Does that mean that _you're_ tired of answering questions? I haven't
meant to be rude."
"You haven't been," I assured her. "You're very kind to take an
interest."
"Well, then, I'm not tired, and I _wouldn't_ like to