"I hope there's nothing gone wrong with Margery, Louisa."
"I hope not," retorted his wife, dragging savagely on the comb.
"Then you've noticed?"
"I've noticed—yes. It's the Tremonceau woman."
"The—"
"The most beautiful cocotte in Paris, my poor Jeremy. Thank God, you have to be told these things! It's the old story, no more admirable because, this time, it's a friend of ours who's making a fool of himself. If I had my way, I'd have sign-boards stuck up at every gate of Paris, with a finger pointing inward, and the inscription 'Mud Garden. For Children Only.' Faugh!"
"But you don't suppose—"
Mrs. Carnby faced her husband, her hands upon her hips, assuming a kind of brazen effrontery.
"I don't suppose, Jeremy Carnby, that a Paris cocotte affects the company of a rich young American for the sake of his beaux yeux. I don't suppose that a good-looking boy in his twenties affects the company of Mirabelle Tremonceau for the pleasures of her conversation. I don't suppose that the loveliest and purest girl on earth is going to survey with emotion the unspeakable folly of the man she cares for. And I don't suppose the man she cares for is likely to be any different from the majority of men, who decide upon marriage principally because they're tired of the other thing. I don't suppose anything except what's logical, and natural—and perfectly disgusting!"
"Do you mean—Vane?" asked Jeremy.