"I don't agree with you."
"Does that matter?"
"I think so."
"It's a free country."
She sat down in a chair which Louis XIV was popularly supposed to have
used. The yellow light of a lamp on a silver pedestal fell upon her
white shoulders.
Franklin got up. His blood raced through his veins. He didn't intend
to stand any nonsense. He was going to show her precisely what it meant
to be at the mercy of an impatient man. He went across to the door at
the far end of the room and opened it. It disclosed a large and
elaborate dressing-room lined with full-length mirrors, lighted like a
theatre, and with a table covered with implements with tortoise-shell
backs. There was another door beyond it. He turned the handle and
threw it open. This was apparently a workroom, but much of it was in
shadow. He saw a young, dark-haired woman kneeling on a chair with her
shoulders rounded over a magazine spread out on a table. One black
slipper had fallen off and lay on its side on the rug. A half-empty box
of candies was near to her elbow. "Mrs. Franklin is ready for you," he
said, and marched back again to his chair.
The maid, obviously French and with the characteristic Breton
good-looks, followed him out, unable to disguise her amazement. She
stood waiting for orders, with her hands clasped in front of her, in an
attitude of rather serf-like humility,--a quiet, slight, black figure,
touched with white at the collar and cuffs. Beatrix crossed her legs and
settled herself more comfortably into her chair. "You may go back,
Helene," she said. "I will call you presently."
The girl bowed and slipped quietly away. Then Beatrix turned to
Franklin, with a most tantalizing air of intimacy. "I'm not tired," she
said, "and although you are very thoughtful,--more so than most
husbands, which is perfectly charming,--I'm all for a little bright
conversation. I was rather bored during dinner and afterwards. Don't
you think you might amuse me? You seem to be a very amusing person."