A brilliant idea struck her. In a corner of the room lay the carpet-bag in which Miss Susan had packed their nightgowns and slippers, and such things as they would require at once. There were, too, their sponges; and, as Miss Susan had been careful to point out, a piece of _soap_, "which you never find in French hotels," she had explained to Gladys. The little girl dived into the bag and drew out the sponges and soap in triumph.
"See, see," she exclaimed, darting back again to the old lady, and flourishing her treasure-trove, "that's what I mean! We must have a _bath_," raising her voice as she went on; "we must be washed and _sponged_;" and suiting the action to the word she proceeded to pat and rub Roger with the dry sponge, glancing up at Madame Nestor to see if the pantomime was understood.
"Ah, yes, to be sure," Madame Nestor exclaimed, her face lighting up, "I understand now, my little lady. All in good time--you shall have water to wash your face and hands as soon as you are dressed. But let me get this poor little man's things on quickly. It is cold this morning."
She began to take off Roger's nightgown and to draw on his little flannel vest, to which _he_ would have made no objection, but Gladys got scarlet with vexation.
"No, no," she cried, "he must be washed _first_. If you haven't got a bath, you might anyway let us have a basin and some water. Roger, you _are_ a dirty boy. You might join me, and then perhaps she'd do it."
Thus adjured, Roger rose to the occasion. He slipped off Madame Nestor's knee, and stepping out of his nightgown began an imaginary sponging of his small person. But it was cold work, and Madame Nestor seeing him begin to shiver grew really uneasy, and again tried to get him into his flannels.
"No, no," said Roger, in his turn--he had left off crying now--even the cold wasn't so bad as Gladdie calling him a dirty boy. Besides who could tell whether, somehow or other, Miss Susan might not come to hear of it? Gladys might write her a letter. "No, no," repeated Roger valorously, "we must be washed _first_."
"You too," said Madame Nestor in despair; "ah, what children!" But her good-humour did not desert her. Vaguely understanding what they meant--for recollections began to come back to her mind of what Léonie's mother used to tell her of the manners and customs of _her_ nurseries--she got up, and smiling still, though with some reproach, at her queer little guests, she drew a blanket from the bed and wrapped it round them, and then opening the door she called downstairs to the little servant to bring a basin and towel and hot water. But the little servant did not understand, so after all the poor old lady had to trot downstairs again herself.