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A discreet knock sounded on her door. “Bon jour, Mademoiselle,” exclaimed the maid, entering with the breakfast tray.

“Bon jour, Annette,” responded Eleanor, rousing herself, then lapsing into English, which her maid spoke with but a slight accent. “Put the tray here beside me. Must I eat that egg?” she made a slight grimace.

“But yes, Mademoiselle.” The Frenchwoman stepped to the window and raised the shade. “Madame Truxton gave orders to Fugi to tell the cook that he must send you a more substantial breakfast. She does not approve of rolls and coffee. I think she wishes you to eat as she does.”

Eleanor shuddered slightly. “Did—did she have beefsteak and fried onions this morning?” she inquired.

“But yes, Mademoiselle,” Annette’s pretty features dimpled into a smile, “and she ate most heartily.”

“Not another word, Annette, you take away my appetite. Is Mrs. Truxton waiting to see me?”

“No, Mademoiselle; she was up at six o’clock and had her breakfast at half-past seven.” Annette paused in the act of laying out a supply of fresh lingerie. “What have the Americans on their conscience that they cannot sleep in the morning?”