“No, I didn’t know that.”
“Are you Mam’selle Diane?”
“Yes, I am Mam’selle Diane; and what is your name?”
“I’m called Lady Jane.”
“Lady Jane,—Lady? Why, do you know that you have a title of nobility?”
“But I’m not one of the nobility. It’s my name, just Lady Jane. Papa always called me Lady Jane. I didn’t know what nobility was, and Mr. Gex told me that you were one. Now I’ll never forget what it is, but I’m not one.”
“You’re a very sweet little girl, all the same,” said Mam’selle Diane, a smile breaking over her grave face. “Come in, I want to show you and your bird to mama.”
Lady Jane followed her guide across a small, spotless side gallery into a tiny room of immaculate cleanliness, where, sitting in an easy-chair near a high bed, was an old, old lady, the oldest person Lady Jane had ever seen, with hair as white as snow, combed back from a delicate, shrunken face and covered with a little black silk cap.
“Mama, this is the little girl with the bird of whom I’ve been telling you,” said Mam’selle Diane, leading her forward. “And, Lady Jane, this is my mother, Madame d’Hautreve.”
The old lady shook hands with the child and patted her head caressingly; then she asked, in a weak, quavering voice, if the bird wasn’t too heavy for the little girl to carry.