“Oh, but how silly! people don’t have broken hearts now; you are talking like out of a book, dear Lady Ver.”
“There are a few cases of broken hearts, but they are not for book reasons—of death and tragedy, etc.; they are because we cannot have what we want, or keep what we have,” and she sighed.
We did not speak for a few minutes, then she said quite gaily,
“You have made my head better, your touch is extraordinary; in spite of all I like you, Snake-girl. You are not found on every gooseberry bush.”
We kissed lightly, and I left her and went to my room.
Yes, the best thing I can do is to marry Christopher; I care for him so little that the lady in Paris won’t matter to me, even if she is like Sir Charles’s Poulet à la Victoria aux truffes. He is such a gentleman, he will at least be kind to me and refined and considerate; and the Carruthers’ emeralds are divine, and just my stones. I shall have them reset by Cartier. The lace, too, will suit me, and the sables, and I shall have the suite that Mrs. Carruthers used at Branches done up with pale green, and burn all the Early Victorians. And no doubt existence will be full of triumphs and pleasure.
But oh! I wish, I wish it were possible to obtain “both.”
300, Park Street,
Friday night.