"Think how disappointed they'd be if
they came in here afterward and found we hadn't touched a thing!"
"But----" she protested.
"You wouldn't hurt the feelings of the saviours of France? I'm going to
make us both up! And there's no time to waste. They've given us fifteen
minutes' grace before lunch. For the honour of womanhood we mustn't be
late!"
I sat her down in the only chair. I dusted her pure little face with
pearl-powder and the faintest _soupcon_ of rouge. I rubbed on her sweet
lips just the suspicion of pink, liked by an elderly _grande dame
francaise_, who has not yet "abdicated." I then made myself up more
seriously: a blue shadow on the lids, a raven touch on the lashes; a
flick of the hare's-foot under my eyes and on my ear-tips: an extra coat
of pink and a brilliant (most injurious!) varnish on the nails. Then,
with a dash of _Rose Ambree_ for my companion's blouse and _Nuits
d'Orient_ for mine, we sallied forth scented like a harem, to do honour
to our hosts.
Luncheon was in a vast cavern of a vaulted banqueting-hall, in the
deepest heart of that citadel, where for eleven years Napoleon kept his
weary English prisoners. Electric lights showed us a table adorned with
fresh flowers (where they'd come from was a miracle, but soon we were to
see other miracles still more miraculous), French, British, and American
flags, and pyramids of fruit. The _Rose Ambree_ and _Nuits d'Orient_
filled the whole vast _salle_, and pleased the officers, I was sure.
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