"Wouldn't you? Men never suspect a woman of being a flirt till they're flirted with and done for. Fanny's the worst description of flirt—oh, I've told her so to her face—for she doesn't mean it; she just leads men on with her sweetness, and doesn't see they're breaking their hearts for her. She's a regular trap bated with sugar. How did you escape, Mr Bevan? You're the only man, I guess, who ever did."
"I haven't the pleasure—er—of Miss Lambert's acquaintance," said Charles, rather stiffly.
"Well, you're safe, for you are engaged; only for that I'd say 'Don't have the pleasure of her acquaintance.' What I like about her is that she makes all the other women so furious; she sucks the men away from them like a whirlpool. It's a pity she's so rich, for it's simply gilt thrown away——"
"Is Miss—Miss Lambert rich?"
"Why, certainly; at least I conclude so."
"Did she tell you so?"
"No—but she gives one the impression; they have country houses like mushrooms all over the place, and she dresses simply just as she pleases; only really rich people can afford to do that. She went to the opera in Paris with us in an old horror of a gown that made her look quite charming. No one notices what she has on; and if she went to heaven in a coffee-coat they'd let her in, for she'd still be Fanny Lambert."
"You saw a good deal of her in Paris?"
"Yes, we went about a good deal."
"Tell me," said Mr Bevan very gravely, "you said she was a flirt—did you really mean that?"