Lady Emily Warrington, slender, elegant, well clad, and for the most part languorously calm, was in a state of excitement quite without her customary aplomb. She sank into a seat, fanning herself with a vigor which threatened ruin to the precious slats of a fan which bore the handiwork of Watteau.
"The streets are full of it," said she. "Have you not heard, really?"
"I must say, not yet. But what is it?"
"Why, the quarrel between the regent and his director-general, Mr. Law."
"No, I have not heard of it." Lady Catharine sought refuge behind her own fan. "But tell me" she continued.
"But that is not all. 'Twas the reason for the quarrel. Paris is all agog. 'Twas about a woman!"
"You mean—there was—a woman?"
"Yes, it all happened last night, at the Palais Royal. The woman is dead—died last night. 'Tis said she fell in a fit at the very table—'twas at a little supper given by the regent—and that when they came to her she was quite dead."
"But Mr. Law—"
"'Twas he that killed her!"