“She said: ‘My dear Prudence, your protégé is not polite; one thinks such letters, one does not write them.”’
“In what tone did she say that?”
“Laughingly,” and she added: “He has had supper with me twice, and hasn’t even called.”
That, then, was the effect produced by my letter and my jealousy. I was cruelly humiliated in the vanity of my affection.
“What did she do last night?”
“She went to the opera.”
“I know. And afterward?”
“She had supper at home.”
“Alone?”
“With the Comte de G., I believe.”