“You don’t want to go, do you?” he asked, hurt.
“Well—”
“Oh, wait a bit!”
The owner of the vermilion cloak spoke again to Gerald, who showed that he was flattered. While talking to her he ordered a brandy-and-soda. And then he could not refrain from displaying to her his familiarity with Parisian life, and he related how he had met Hortense Schneider behind a pair of white horses. The vermilion cloak grew even more sociable at the mention of this resounding name, and chattered with the most agreeable vivacity. Her friend stared inimically.
“Do you hear that?” Gerald explained to Sophia, who was sitting silent. “About Hortense Schneider—you know, we met her to-night. It seems she made a bet of a louis with some fellow, and when he lost he sent her the louis set in diamonds worth a hundred thousand francs. That’s how they go on here.”
“Oh!” cried Sophia, further than ever in the labyrinth.
“‘Scuse me,” the Englishman put in heavily. He had heard the words 'Hortense Schneider,’ ‘Hortense Schneider,’ repeating themselves in the conversation, and at last it had occurred to him that the conversation was about Hortense Schneider. “‘Scuse me,” he began again. “Are you—do you mean Hortense Schneider?”
“Yes,” said Gerald. “We met her to-night.”
“She’s in Trouville,” said the Englishman, flatly.
Gerald shook his head positively.