She never grudged a holiday; she allowed plenty of time for sleeping, dressing, washing, eating; her method in all these matters was easy, liberal, salutary, and rational: many an austere English school-mistress would do vastly well to imitate her--and I believe many would be glad to do so, if exacting English parents would let them.
As Madame Beck ruled by espionage, she of course had her staff of spies: she perfectly knew the quality of the tools she used, and while she would not scruple to handle the dirtiest for a dirty occasion--flinging this sort from her like refuse rind, after the orange has been duly squeezed--I have known her fastidious in seeking pure metal for clean uses; and when once a bloodless and rustless instrument was found, she was careful of the prize, keeping it in silk and cotton-wool.

Yet, woe be to that man or woman who relied on her one inch beyond the point where it was her interest to be trustworthy: interest was the master-key of Madame's nature--the mainspring of her motives--the alpha and omega of her life.

I have seen her _feelings_ appealed to, and I have smiled in half-pity, half-scorn at the appellants.

None ever gained her ear through that channel, or swayed her purpose by that means.

On the contrary, to attempt to touch her heart was the surest way to rouse her antipathy, and to make of her a secret foe.