“The back piazza at my sister’s? Oh don’t; it was too horrid. She has left now. I believe every one has left.” The member of Parliament drew out his watch with the air of a man who could take no part in these domestic reminiscences; he appeared to combine a generic self-possession with a degree of individual shyness. He said something about its being time they should go back to their seats, but Mrs. Headway paid no attention to the remark. Waterville wished her to linger and indeed felt almost as free to examine her as he had to walk, in a different spirit, round the statue of the author of _Candide_. Her low-growing hair, with its fine dense undulations, was of a shade of blackness that has now become rare; her complexion had the bloom of a white flower; her profile, when she turned her head, was as pure and fine as the outline of a cameo. “You know this is their first theatre,” she continued, as if to rise to the occasion. “And this is Voltaire, the celebrated writer.” “I’m devoted to the Comédie Française”—Waterville rose as well. “Dreadfully bad house; we didn’t hear a word,” said Sir Arthur Demesne. “Ah, yes, the sad far boxes!” murmured Waterville. “I’m rather disappointed,” Mrs. Headway went on. “But I want to see what becomes of that woman.” “Doña Clorinde? Oh I suppose they’ll shoot her. They generally shoot the women in French plays,” Littlemore said. “It will remind me of San Pablo!” cried Mrs. Headway. “Ah, at San Pablo the women did the shooting.” “They don’t seem to have killed _you_!” she returned archly. “No, but I’m riddled with wounds.” “Well, this is very remarkable”—the lady reverted to Houdon’s statue. “It’s beautifully modelled.” “You’re perhaps reading M. de Voltaire,” Littlemore suggested. “No; but I’ve purchased his works.” “They’re not proper reading for ladies,” said the young Englishman severely, offering his arm to his charge. “Ah, you might have told me before I had bought them!” she exclaimed in exaggerated dismay. “I couldn’t imagine you’d buy a hundred and fifty volumes.” “A hundred and fifty? I’ve only bought two.” “Perhaps two won’t hurt you!” Littlemore hopefully contributed. She darted him a reproachful ray. “I know what you mean—that I’m too bad already! Well, bad as I am you must come and see me.” And she threw him the name of her hotel as she walked away with her Englishman. Waterville looked after the latter with a certain interest; he had heard of him in London and had seen his portrait in _Vanity Fair_. It was not yet time to go down, in spite of this gentleman’s saying so, and Littlemore and his friend passed out to the balcony of the foyer. “Headway—Headway? Where the deuce did she get that name?” Littlemore asked as they looked down into the flaring dusk. “From her husband I suppose,” his friend suggested. “From her husband? From which? The last was named Beck.”