“Not to give or take offence,” said Théroigne, with fine impartiality.
“Both of which have been done, mademoiselle. So, let us cry quits. And what would Mademoiselle Legrand make of all this?”
“How can I tell? She is the saint of dear conceits. She has the inward eye for things invisible to us. ‘Where do the threads of rain disappear to, Théroigne?’ says she. ‘Oh, mon Dieu, Nicette! Am I a Cagliostro?’ ‘I think,’ she says, ‘they are pulled into the earth by goblins working at great looms of water. Each thread draws like spun glass from the crucible of the clouds, and so underfoot is woven the network of springs and channels.’ Ciel! the quaint sweet child! Whither come her fancies? They are there in the morning like drops of dew.”
St Denys broke in with a rippling snatch of song:—
“‘Mignonne, allons voir si la rose,
Qui ce matin avoit desclose
Sa robe de pourpre au soleil,
A point perdu, ceste vesprée,
Les plis de sa robe pourprée,
Et son teint au vostre pareil.’”