"I told you I only scratched when I was scratched first," I said, as I went out of the room.
The angels had started for their walk, and Véronique had to come with me at first to find them. We were walking fast down the path beyond Stanhope Gate, seeing their blue velvet pelisses in the distance, when we met Mr. Carruthers.
He stopped and turned with me.
"Evangeline, I was so angry with you yesterday," he said. "I very nearly left London and abandoned you to your fate, but now that I have seen you again—" He paused.
"You think Paris is a long way off!" I said, innocently.
"What have they been telling you?" he said, sternly, but he was not quite comfortable.
"They have been saying it is a fine November, and the Stock Exchange is no place to play in, and if it weren't for bridge they would all commit suicide. That is what we talk of at Park Street."
"You know very well what I mean. What have they been telling you about me?"
"Nothing, except that there is a charming French lady who adores you, and whom you are devoted to—and I am so sympathetic. I like Frenchwomen, they put on their hats so nicely."
"What ridiculous gossip! I don't think Park Street is the place for you to stay. I thought you had more mind than to chatter like this."