"Don't get sulky again," she said, and as I still did not speak, she asked vehemently, "What is the matter now?"
"Simply that we are turned out of the hotel," I replied.
"Is that all? The insolent ruffians! It is a thousand pities we ever came here. But why get sulky over it? Paris is crammed with hotels, and they will only be too glad to take our money."
"It is not that, Barbara. I wish to know if you drank all the brandy in the decanter."
"All? It wasn't more than a thimbleful. And see what good it did me."
"Did you finish it before you promised never to touch spirits again?"
"What a tragedy voice, and what a tragedy face! Of course I did. Do you think I would be so dishonorable as to break a promise I gave you—you, of all, men? That isn't showing much confidence in me."
"You will keep that promise faithfully, Barbara?"
"I should be ashamed to look you in the face if I did not mean to keep it faithfully. You will never find me doing anything underhanded or behind your back, John."
I rallied at this. My happiness was lost, but there was a hope that our shame would not be revealed to the world. As for what had occurred in this hotel, once we were gone it would soon be forgotten. The swiftly turning kaleidoscope of life in Paris is too absorbing in its changes to allow the inhabitants to dwell long upon one picture, especially on a picture the principle figures in which were persons so insignificant as ourselves.