come now, Yvonne,” she whispered. “You will see…. And now, my boy,” she said with an air of decision, turning to him again, “have you had dinner yet?… No?… Good!” she said with satisfaction. “I shall eat with you,” she took him by the arm possessively. “We shall eat together here in the hotel…. I shall have Pierre set a table for us… we shall always eat together there—just you and I…. Ah, you have come to the right place… I shall look after you and watch you like your own mother, my boy…. There are so many bad places here in Orléans… so many low resorts. I shall tell you where they are so that you can keep out of them… it is so easy for a young man to go astray…. So many young Americans who come over here get into trouble, meet with bad companions, because they have no one to guide them…. But have no fear, my boy… I will watch over you while you are here like your own mother…. They call me Little Mother.”
He cast a distressed and perplexed glance towards Yvonne, and that capable person came instantly and suavely to his rescue.
“Perhaps, Countess,” she said smoothly, “Monsieur would like to see his room and brosh up a beet after ze fatigue of his journey—eh?”
He looked at her gratefully, and the Countess, nodding her head vigorously, said instantly:
“Oui! Oui! C’est ça!… By all means, my boy, go up to your room and wash up a bit…. Ah, a lovely room! He will like it, eh, Yvonne?… New furnishings, hot and cold water, beautiful plumbing.”
“I can assure Monsieur,” said Yvonne dutifully, “that he need have no—kalms—”
“Qualms, Yvonne, qualms,” the Countess corrected her gently—“a lovely room, my boy! And when you have finished come on down and we will dine together…. You will find me here. I will wait for you. And while you eat,” she said enticingly. “I shall let you read my clippings—ah-h, I have a great book full of them…. You shall read it all, everything—what it says about their Little Mother,” she said tenderly. “And I shall keep you company. I shall talk to you and tell you what to do in Orléans…. No, no, I shall eat nothing,” she said hastily, as if to allay some economic apprehension on his part. “It will cost you nothing…. A little of your coffee, perhaps…. Perhaps a glass of wine—no more. Ah, my dear,” the old woman went on sadly, “the food here is so lovely, and I cannot eat it… I can eat nothing—”
“Nothing?” he said, staring at her.
“Rien, rien, rien,”
