“My dear lady, it is consecrated ground if you like,” said Wemyss, interrupting. “And a very proper place to be buried in. But I tried living there for three months.”
“And so, now, you are going back to Paris?”
“I came on with that intention.”
“Why don’t you go then?”
“I am afraid it’s too late,” said Wemyss, looking at his watch. “My steamer sails at four.”
Mrs. Gower made a little ejaculation of surprise; and then laughed a trill or two. “Mr. Wemyss, you are a great humbug,” said she, throwing her head back upon the pink satin cushion, and looking at him from the corners of her half-closed eyes.
“We have to be,” said Wemyss, with a sigh. “Now there’s the trouble of Boston; they can’t understand that. And the six or eight of us who do, grow rusty for want of practice.”
“But you have one another?”
“We know one another down to the ground. There is no excitement in that; it is playing double-dummy without stakes.”
“And so you are going to Paris?”