Ottoline.
[Rising and wandering to the writing-table.] First we descended upon Paris—you know; but Paris didn't respond very satisfactorily. Plenty of smart men flocked round us—la belle Mademoiselle Filson drew them to the Avenue Montaigne!——
Philip.
[Under his breath, turning.] T'scht!
Ottoline.
But the women were either hopelessly bourgeoises or slightly déclassée. [Inspecting some of the pieces of bric-à-brac upon the table.] Which decided us to attack London—and induced me to pay my call on you in the Rue Soufflot——
Philip.
I understand.
Ottoline.
To coax you to herald us in your weekly causeries. [Wincing.] Horrible of me, that was; horrible, horrible, horrible! [Replacing an object upon the table and moving to the other side of the room.] However, I wasn't destined to share the earliest of the London triumphs. [Bitterly.] Mine awaited me in Paris, and at Vaudemont-Baudricourt, as the Comtesse de Chaumié! [Shivering.] Ugh-h-h-h——!