“Just so. Downright impudent, I'd call it.”
“Not even that,” said Mr. Peddar, pondering; “haughty, rather,—a kind of don't-think-to-come-it-on-me style of look, eh?”
“Not at all amiable,—point de cela,” exclaimed mam'selle; “but still, I will say, très bon genre. You see at a glance that she has seen la bonne société.”
“Which, after all, is the same all the world over,” said Peddar, dogmatically. “At Vienna we just saw the same people we used to have with us in London; at Rome, the same; so, too, at Naples. I assure you that the last time I dined at Dolgorouki's, I proposed going in the evening to the Haymarket. I quite forgot we were on the Neva. And when Prince Gladuatoffski's gentleman said, 'Where shall I set you down?' I answered carelessly, 'At my chambers in the Albany, or anywhere your Highness likes near that.' Such is life!” exclaimed he, draining the last of the champagne into his glass.
“The place will be pretty dull without us, I fancy,” said Mrs. Runt, looking out at the distant landscape.
“That horrid old Mother Broon won't say so,” said Peddar, laughing. “By Jove! if it was only to escape that detestable hag, it 's worth while getting away.”
“I offer her my hand when I descend the steps, but she refuse froidement, and say, 'I wish you as much pleasure as you leave behind you.' Pas mal for such a creature.”
“I did n't even notice her,” said Mrs. Runt.
“Ma foi! I was good with all the world; I was in such Joy—such spirits—that I forgave all and everything. I felt nous sommes en route, and Paris—dear Paris—before us.”
“My own sentiments to, a T,” said Mr. Peddar. “Let me live on the Boulevards, have my cab, my stall at the Opera, two Naps, per diem for my dinner, and I'd not accept Mary Martin's hand if she owned Cro' Martin, and obliged me to live in it.”