“If she were respectable I would marry her to-morrow.”
“Ah!” uttered the Younger, slowly. “And are you respectable? Not, of course, that I mean to imply anything against a Marquis of Tuscany.”
The Elder dropped his monocle.
“What will you have? Things are like that. Besides, women don’t care. In fact they are all the more flattered to have been chosen last. It proves their pretensions.”
“O!” grinned the Younger. “And who is the last?”
“Nobody knows. Some say she is a diva from Paris; others that she is a danseuse from Vienna; and others—But she is here on some caprice. She is waiting for someone. I have tried to make her think it was for me. I have made eyes. I have smiled. I have sighed. I have wept. I have sent flowers. I have written poems. I have thrown myself in her path. But she does not look. She goes about like anybody. She has her—you know—with her——an old fat one.”
“But how do you know that she is not somebody?” demanded the Younger.
“Wait till you see!” admonished the Elder darkly. “Does anybody flâne about alone and refuse to speak? Does anybody wear diamonds in the day-time? Does anybody drag frills from the Rue de la Paix over the sands of the sea? Does anybody come to a hole like Viareggio when they might be at Venice or Scheveningen or Deauville?”
The Younger, highly entertained by this impassioned picture, was on the point of pursuing his inquiries when the Elder evinced a sudden excitement.
“Look!” he whispered, replacing his monocle.