"Oh, how eenteresting! But what eef love heemself ees pain--who
shall heal that, eh, Meester Carpentair?"

"O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-h!" came the moan.

Said Rosythe: "Mr. Carpenter thinks you make the ladies suffer too
much. It worries him."

"Ah, but the ladies do not mind! Pain? What ees eet? The lady who
makes the groans, she cannot move, and so she ees unhappy. Also, she
likes to have her own way, she ees a leetle--what you say?--spoilt.
But her troubles weel pass; she weel be beautiful, and her husband
weel love her more, and she weel be happy."

"O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-oh!" from the other room; and Madame Planchet
prattled away: "I say to them, Make plenty of noises! Eet helps! No
one weel be afraid, for all here are worshippers of the god of
beautee--all weel bear the pains that he requires. Eh, Meester
Carpentair?"

Carpenter was staring at her. I had not before seen such intensity
of concentration on his face. He was trying to understand this
situation, so beyond all believing.

"I weel tell you something," said Madame Planchet, lowering her
voice confidentially. "The lady what you hear--that ees Meeses T-S.
You know Meester T-S, the magnate of the peectures?"

Carpenter did not say whether he knew or not.