But at a peremptory sign from de Batz he, too, turned in the wake of the gay little lady, who ran swiftly up the rickety steps, humming snatches of popular songs the while, and not turning to see if indeed the two men were following her.
She had the sheaf of narcissi still in her arms, and the door of her tiny dressing-room being open, she ran straight in and threw the flowers down in a confused, sweet-scented mass upon the small table that stood at one end of the room, littered with pots and bottles, letters, mirrors, powder-puffs, silk stockings, and cambric handkerchiefs.
Then she turned and faced the two men, a merry look of unalterable gaiety dancing in her eyes.
"Shut the door, mon ami," she said to de Batz, "and after that sit down where you can, so long as it is not on my most precious pot of unguent or a box of costliest powder." While de Batz did as he was told, she turned to Armand and said with a pretty tone of interrogation in her melodious voice: "Monsieur ?" "St.Just, at your service, mademoiselle," said Armand, bowing very low in the most approved style obtaining at the English Court.
"St.Just ?" she repeated, a look of puzzlement in her brown eyes.
"Surely--" "A kinsman of citizen St.Just, whom no doubt you know, mademoiselle," he exclaimed.
"My friend Armand St.Just," interposed de Batz, "is practically a new-comer in Paris.

He lives in England habitually." "In England ?" she exclaimed.

"Oh! do tell me all about England.

I would love to go there.

Perhaps I may have to go some day.