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basket, was holding to one of them. The rest of us
followed, loyally staggering too. Paul went to open the door, but Eliot stepped forward.
    “Where are you going this time of night?”
    “To the police.” Joss’s nostrils were pinched with temper.
    “The police? Why?”
    “Because of you French ,” said Joss furiously.
    “I’m not French, I’m English,” said Eliot.
    Mother must have heard that. She gave a moan and said, “Please.” Eliot looked past us to her, and his face changed. “Zizi,” he said, “she’s ill.”
    He went quickly to Mother, bent down and took her hand, feeling it as he questioned her, but after that ‘Please’ Mother did not speak again, and her head rolled against the
chair.
    “She’s very ill, Zizi,” he said. “We must help.”
    “But . . . our dinner.” Her English was pretty and clipped.
    “All the same.”
    “But we shall be late!”
    “All the same.” It sounded like a command. “Irène,” he called to Madame Corbet, “ring Doctor Giroux”; and to Mauricette, “Open the
rooms.”
    I heard Madame Corbet pick up the telephone, the maid shrugged and went to the keyboard. Paul took the suitcases from Joss, but Mademoiselle Zizi stayed where she had been, at the foot of the
steps, her beautiful dress held up.

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    CHAPTER 8
    D INNER WAS not comfortable that night. If anyone French came to the hotel, Eliot dined alone, not at the table by the screen, and tonight, all through
dinner, his eyes kept coming to Joss, still with that amazed look, and from her table Mademoiselle Zizi’s eyes followed his. At last she got up and left the dining-room. I do not think he
noticed her going.
    We, at our table, had long waits because Paul did not come to us at all. He had on the white coat he wore when help was needed in the dining-room, but he only brought dishes to the service door
for Mauricette and took the dirty plates from her. I heard her order him, in angry whispers, to come in and help her, but he would not. Joss, of course, did not know it was different; she sat
innocently well mannered and patient, but Vicky began to nod with sleep and Willmouse yawned and even fidgeted. It was absurdly late for them, but for a long time now their bedtime had been
forgotten. I had given up worrying about it after that first day and Joss must have been bemused, because she did not say anything. “I never went to bed before eleven, not once,” Vicky
told Uncle William afterwards.
    Hester beckoned to Paul to bring us the dish he was holding in the doorway, but he scowled and turned his back. There was celery soup, stuffed tomatoes, veal with potatoes, flageolet beans
served separately as they did here, cheese and fruit. We had only reached the veal when Mademoiselle Zizi called Eliot from the office. He threw his napkin down impatiently and went out. Soon the
visitors finished and left too, but Mauricette still walked past us, putting things away instead of bringing our fruit. We, who were familiar, began to be annoyed, but Joss said, “Naturally
they have to attend to the more important visitors first.”
    She seemed not to know that Mauricette was taking it out on us, that Paul was shunning us. How could she? When Mauricette at last planked down our plate of greengages, the cut-glass bowl of
water for our fingers and the clean plates, Joss said, “Merci,” as if Mauricette had been normally polite. “Mademoiselle Zizi vous attend dans le bureau,” said Mauricette,
“si des fois vous auriez fini,” she added sarcastically.
    Joss looked enquiringly at me; she was not used to Mauricette’s quick talking. “Mademoiselle Zizi wants us in the office,” I said. “Oh, Joss!”
    She was a little startled, and we others looked at one another. The table, with us round it, seemed suddenly small and the dining-room big and foreign.
    “Who gave you