“In half an hour.”

True enough, everything stood ready-packed⁠—trunks, portmanteaux, and all. Coffee had long been served.

“ Eh bien, tu verras Paris. Dis donc, qu’est-ce que c’est qu’un ‘ utchitel ’? Tu étais bien bête quand tu étais ‘ utchitel .’ Where are my stockings? Please help me to dress.”

And she lifted up a really ravishing foot⁠—small, swarthy, and not misshapen like the majority of feet which look dainty only in bottines. I laughed, and started to draw on to the foot a silk stocking, while Mlle. Blanche sat on the edge of the bed and chattered.