“Not till I have had a talk with you, chère amie. I know where you have been spending your vacation, and how you have commenced sacrificing to the graces, and enjoying life like any other belle. I saw you at the concert the other night, dressed, actually, like anybody else. Who is your tailleuse?” “Tittle-tattle: how prettily it begins! My tailleuse!—a fiddlestick! Come, sheer off, Ginevra. I really don’t want your company.” “But when I want yours so much, ange farouche, what does a little reluctance on your part signify? Dieu merci! we know how to manœuvre with our gifted compatriote—the learned ‘ourse Britannique.’ And so, Ourson, you know Isidore?” “I know John Bretton.” “Oh, hush!” (putting her fingers in her ears) “you crack my tympanums with your rude Anglicisms. But, how is our well-beloved John? Do tell me about him. The poor man must be in a sad way. What did he say to my behaviour the other night? Wasn’t I cruel?” “Do you think I noticed you?” “It was a delightful evening. Oh, that divine de Hamal! And then to watch the other sulking and dying in the distance; and the old lady—my future mamma-in-law! But I am afraid I and Lady Sara were a little rude in quizzing her.” “Lady Sara never quizzed her at all; and for what _you_ did, don’t make yourself in the least uneasy: Mrs. Bretton will survive _your_ sneer.” “She may: old ladies are tough; but that poor son of hers! Do tell me what he said: I saw he was terribly cut up.” “He said you looked as if at heart you were already Madame de Hamal.” “Did he?” she cried with delight. “He noticed that? How charming! I thought he would be mad with jealousy.” “Ginevra, have you seriously done with Dr. Bretton? Do you want him to give you up?” “Oh! you know he _can’t_ do that: but wasn’t he mad?” “Quite mad,” I assented; “as mad as a March hare.” “Well, and how _ever_ did you get him home?” “How _ever_, indeed! Have you no pity on his poor mother and me? Fancy us holding him tight down in the carriage, and he raving between us, fit to drive everybody delirious. The very coachman went wrong, somehow, and we lost our way.” “You don’t say so? You are laughing at me. Now, Lucy Snowe—” “I assure you it is fact—and fact, also, that Dr. Bretton would _not_ stay in the carriage: he broke from us, and _would_ ride outside.” “And afterwards?” “Afterwards—when he _did_ reach home—the scene transcends description.” “Oh, but describe it—you know it is such fun!” “Fun for _you_, Miss Fanshawe? but” (with stern gravity) “you know the proverb—‘What is sport to one may be death to another.’” “Go on, there’s a darling Timon.” “Conscientiously, I cannot, unless you assure me you have some heart.” “I have—such an immensity, you don’t know!”