"Well—but don't you remember singing at Paris, in the Salle des Bashibazoucks—and at Vienna—St. Petersburg—lots of places?"
"What nonsense, dear—you're thinking of some one else! I never sang anywhere! I've been to Vienna and St. Petersburg—but I never sang there—good heavens!"
Then there was a pause, and our three friends looked at her helplessly.
Little Billee said: "Tell me, Trilby—what made you cut me dead when I bowed to you in the Place de la Concorde, and you were riding with Svengali in that swell carriage?"
"I never rode in a swell carriage with Svengali! omnibuses were more in our line! You're dreaming, dear Little Billee—you're taking me for somebody else; and as for my cutting you—why, I'd sooner cut myself—into little pieces!"
"Where were you staying with Svengali in Paris?"
"I really forget. Were we in Paris? Oh yes, of course. Hôtel Bertrand, Place Notre Dame des Victoires."
"How long have you been going about with Svengali?"
"Oh, months, years—I forget. I was very ill. He cured me."
"Ill! What was the matter?"