WHITEWASH
quired the best rooms—as he said before, what could he do? It was vexatious; but the child was ill, very ill.
Sonia flushed and drew herself up. It was at such moments that she gave ground for the suspicion current in the artistic circles she frequented, that concealed under her simple incognito was a name as illustrious as the Orloffs' own. "My good man," she articulated, as she quenched the fire of his eloquence by an icy glance, "you are under contract to accommodate us. If the child is ill, we will not insist on our rights; but accommodate us you must, somewhere. You know perfectly well the conditions here during the feast. We have no intention of sleeping in the square with the peasants, or doing the 'Stations of the Cross' on our knees all night in the church. Now, what are you going to do?"
The landlord looked up at her stately height, at the gold glory of her hair, at the violet fire of her eyes—and wilted.
"Madame—mademoiselle must pardon. It is unfortunate, but perhaps, if the ladies would be
graciously lenient—there were—rooms—oh,
