sometimes; so I've been told on good authority,' Graham reminded her with his smile.
'Ah—so they may have started;—but they did not end as boutiquiers!' the old lady took up his challenge with equal gaiety. She was living. She was taking in draughts of life deeper than any she had tasted for years. She hugged the happy moment to her breast.
'It doesn't look like the room of what we should call boutiquiers.'
'Ah, our bourgeoisie gains taste in time;—if you call this taste.—Do you admire those water-lilies?—those bookcases?—and—bon Dieu!—those horrible books that were never read and never meant to be read by anybody?—And the Jacquards did not remain Jacquard undiluted. They married well; too well. It was their ambition that undid them. Impecunious daughters of the haute bourgeoisie—of the petite noblesse, even, on one occasion—stooped to the alliance, and few families can bear the burden of a succession of dowerless wives. You would not admire this room, Monsieur'—and again a certain vindictiveness came into the old lady's voice—'if you had to spend your winters in it alone.'
'I think it's rather horrible, too,' said Jill. 'It looks like a room that's never breathed. How do you keep warm? It's a northern aspect, isn't it?'
'It is a northern aspect. I do not keep warm. I perish with cold!' cried Madame de Lamouderie. 'Fortunately—or unfortunately—I am tough; so-
