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“They have a tournure de princesse–a distinction supreme,” he said to me. “One is surprised to find them in a little pension, at seven francs a day.”

“Oh, they don’t come for economy,” I answered. “They must be rich.”

“They don’t come for my beaux yeux–for mine,” said M. Pigeonneau, sadly. “Perhaps it’s for yours, young man. Je vous recommande la mere.”

I reflected a moment. “They came on account of Mr. Ruck–because at hotels he’s so restless.”

M. Pigeonneau gave me a knowing nod. “Of course he is, with such a wife as that–a femme superbe. Madame Ruck is preserved in perfection–a miraculous fraicheur. I like those large, fair, quiet women; they are often, dans l’intimite, the most agreeable. I’ll warrant you that at heart Madame Ruck is a finished coquette.”

“I rather doubt it,” I said.

“You suppose her cold? Ne vous y fiez pas!”

“It is a matter in which I have nothing at stake.”

“You young Americans are droll,” said M. Pigeonneau; “you never have anything at stake! But the little one, for example; I’ll warrant you she’s not cold. She is admirably made.”

“She is very pretty.”

“‘She is very pretty!’ Vous dites cela d’un ton! When you pay compliments to Mademoiselle Ruck, I hope that’s not the way you do it.”

“I don’t pay compliments to Mademoiselle Ruck.”

“Ah, decidedly,” said M. Pigeonneau, “you young Americans are droll!”

I should have suspected that these two ladies would not especially commend themselves to Madame Beaurepas; that as a maitresse de salon, which she in some degree aspired to be, she would have found them wanting in a certain flexibility of deportment. But I should have gone quite wrong; Madame Beaurepas had no fault at all to find with her new pensionnaires. “I have no observation whatever to make about them,” she said to me one evening. “I see nothing in those ladies which is at all deplace. They don’t complain of anything; they don’t meddle; they take what’s given them; they leave me tranquil. The Americans are often like that. Often, but not always,” Madame Beaurepas pursued. “We are to have a specimen to-morrow of a very different sort.”

“An American?” I inquired.

“Two Americaines–a mother and a daughter. There are Americans and Americans: when you are difficiles, you are more so than any one, and when you have pretensions–ah, per exemple, it’s serious. I foresee that with this little lady everything will be serious, beginning with her cafe au lait. She has been staying at the Pension Chamousset–my concurrent, you know, farther up the street; but she is coming away because the coffee is bad. She holds to her coffee, it appears. I don’t know what liquid Madame Chamousset may have invented, but we will do the best we can for her. Only, I know she will make me des histoires about something else. She will demand a new lamp for the salon; vous alles voir cela. She wishes to pay but eleven francs a day for herself and her daughter, tout compris; and for their eleven francs they expect to be lodged like princesses. But she is very ‘ladylike’–isn’t that what you call it in English? Oh, pour cela, she is ladylike!”

I caught a glimpse on the morrow of this ladylike person, who was arriving at her new residence as I came in from a walk. She had come in a cab, with her daughter and her luggage; and, with an air of perfect softness and serenity, she was disputing the fare as she stood among her boxes, on the steps. She addressed her cabman in a very English accent, but with extreme precision and correctness. “I wish to be perfectly reasonable, but I don’t wish to encourage you in exorbitant demands. With a franc and a half you are sufficiently paid. It is not the custom at Geneva to give a pour-boire for so short a drive. I have made inquiries, and I find it is not the custom, even in the best families. I am a stranger, yes, but I always adopt the custom of the native families. I think it my duty toward the natives.”