'Ah, you wish I go horseback riding. Ver' nice, but not for me. I have never did it. I cannot begun now, Lady Everard. I spoil all the _velouté_ of my voice. Have you seen again that pretty little lady I met here before? Delicious light brown hair, pretty blue eyes, a wonderful blue, a blue that seem to say to everyone something different.' 'What!' exclaimed Lady Everard. 'Are you referring to Mrs Ottley?' She calmed down again. 'Oh yes, she's charming, awfully sweet--devoted to her husband, you know--absolutely devoted to her husband; so rare and delightful nowadays in London.' 'Oh yes, ver' nice. Me, I am devoted to 'er husband too. I go to see him. He ask me.' 'What, without _me_?' exclaimed Lady Everard. 'I meet him the other night. He ask me to come round and sing him a song. I cannot ask if I may bring Lady Everard in my pocket.' 'Really, Paul, I don't think that quite a nice joke to make, I must say.' Then relenting she said: 'I know it's only your artistic fun.' 'So she ver' devoted to him? He have great confidence in her; he trust her quite; he sure she never have any flirt?' 'He has every confidence; he's certain, absolutely certain!' exclaimed Lady Everard. 'He wait till she come and tell him, I suppose. 'E is right.' He continued in this strain for some time, constantly going back to his admiration for Edith, and then began (with a good deal of bitterness) on the subject of another young singer, whom he declared to be _un garçon charmant_, but no good. 'He could not sing for nuts.' She heartily agreed, and they began to get on beautifully again, when she suddenly said to him: 'Is it true you were seen talking in the park to that girl Miss Turnbull, on Sunday?' 'If you say I was seen, I was. You could not know I talk to her unless I was seen. You could not know by wireless.' 'Don't talk nonsense, Paul,' she answered sharply. 'The point isn't that you were seen, but that you did it.' 'Who did it? Me? I didn't do anything.' 'I don't think it's fair to me, I must say; it hurt my feelings that you should meet Amy Turnbull in the park and talk to her.' 'But what could I say? It is ver' difficul. I walk through the park; she walk through it with another lady. She speak to me. She say: Ah, dear Mr La France, what pleasure to see you! I ask you, Lady Everard, could I, a foreigner, not even naturalised here, could I order her out of the park? Could I scream out to her: Go out, do not walk in ze Hyde Park! Lady Everard do not like you! I have no authority to say that. I am not responsible for the persons that walk in their own park in their own country. She might answer me to go to the devil! She might say to me: What, Lady Everard not like me, so I am not allowed in the park? What that got to do with it? In a case like this, chère madame, I have no legal power.' She laughed forgivingly and said: