'Her name?' said Beauchamp.
'A marquise; I forget her name. The other was Countess Rastaglione; you must have heard of her; a towering witch, an empress, Helen of Troy; though Ducie would have it the brunette was Queen of Paris. For French taste, if you like.'
Countess Rastaglione was a lady enamelled on the scroll of Fame. 'Did you see them together?' said Beauchamp. 'They weren't together?'
Palmet looked at him and laughed. 'You're yourself again, are you? Go to Paris in January, and cut out the Frenchmen.'
'Answer me, Palmet: they weren't in couples?'
'I fancy not. It was luck to meet them, so they couldn't have been.'
'Did you dance with either of them?'
Unable to state accurately that he had, Palmet cried, 'Oh! for dancing, the Frenchwoman beat the Italian.'
'Did you see her often—more than once?'
'My dear fellow, I went everywhere to see her: balls, theatres, promenades, rides, churches.'