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 Katie stepped back on to the doorstep, lest the inferiority of her stature should mar the effect of her disdain.

"Good-day. Is it here that Duke D'Orsay lives?" asked Mélisande, as nearly accurate as a Gaul may be in such matters.

"The Duke of Dorset," said Katie with a cold and insular emphasis, "lives here." And "You," she tried to convey with her eyes, "you, for all your smart black silk, are a hireling. I am Miss Batch. I happen to have a hobby for housework. I have not been crying."

"Then please mount this to him at once," said Mélisande, holding out the letter. "It is from Miss Dobson's part. Very express. I wait response."

"You are very ugly," Katie signalled with her eyes. "I am very pretty. I have the Oxfordshire complexion. And I play the piano."

With her lips she said merely, "His Grace is not called before nine o'clock."

"But to-day you go wake him now—quick—is it not?"

"Quite out of the question," said Katie. "If you care to leave that letter here, I will see that it is placed on his Grace's breakfast-table, with the morning's post." "For the rest," added her eyes, "Down with France!"

"I find you droll, but droll, my little one!" cried Mélisande.

Katie stepped back and shut the door in her