Have you been in Paris much these late
years?"
Hilda lowered one of the candle-shades
carefully. "Oh, yes, I go over to Paris often.
There are few changes in the old Quarter.
Dear old Madame Anger is dead--but perhaps
you don't remember her?"
"Don't I, though! I'm so sorry to hear it.
How did her son turn out? I remember how
she saved and scraped for him, and how he
always lay abed till ten o'clock. He was the
laziest fellow at the Beaux Arts; and that's
saying a good deal."
"Well, he is still clever and lazy. They
say he is a good architect when he will work.
He's a big, handsome creature, and he hates
Americans as much as ever. But Angel--do
you remember Angel?"
"Perfectly. Did she ever get back to
Brittany and her bains de mer?"
"Ah, no. Poor Angel! She got tired of
cooking and scouring the coppers in Madame
Anger's little kitchen, so she ran away with a
soldier, and then with another soldier.
Too bad! She still lives about the Quarter,
and, though there is always a soldat, she has
become a blanchisseuse de fin. She did my blouses
beautifully the last time I was there, and was
so delighted to see me again. I gave her all
my old clothes, even my old hats, though she
always wears her Breton headdress. Her hair
is still like flax, and her blue eyes are just like
a baby's, and she has the same three freckles
on her little nose, and talks about going back
to her bains de mer.
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