“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 were not 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 French women, 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.”
“I suit myself to my company!” I laughed, and waited for Véronique, who had stopped respectfully behind—she came up reluctantly. She disapproves of all English unconventionality, but she feels it her duty to encourage Mr. Carruthers.
Should she run on, and stop the young ladies? she suggested, pointing to the angels in front.
“Yes, do,” said Mr. Carruthers, and before I could prevent her, she was off.
Traitress! She was thinking of her own comfortable quarters at Branches, I know!
The sharp, fresh air, got into my head. I felt gay, and without care. I said heaps of things to Mr. Carruthers, just as I had once before to Malcolm, only this was much more fun, because Mr. Carruthers isn’t a red-haired Scotchman, and can see things.