“Win it, then.”
“Any good in the father?”
“A typical bourgeois, accustomed to hector his neighbours, and not altogether convinced in his own mind.”
Maître Barraud swept his hat to a charming lady who drove by in a victoria.
“The Marquise de Pontharmin,” he explained. “I dine with her to-night.”
“While poor Madame de Beaudrillart imagines you preparing your defence with a wet towel round your head?”
“The world’s remarks are worth a dozen wet towels. Do you know, the world is sometimes extraordinarily shrewd, and you can go and tell your phoenix so. Here we part—till to-morrow!”