She appears frank, careless; but there is such a touch of hardiness in her voice, velvet over steel. It is a challenge to M. Flair to say "Yes," and what man would have the moral courage?
"My dear lady," he says with uplifted hands. "What a ridiculous idea!"
Then, when she has gone, he says to me: "You see how it is—O mon Dieu!"
* * *
"Yes, but the Golden Girl," I say. "How did anything so beautiful happen in the world? The racehorse lines of her, the slimness, the strength. Is she one of these exiled princesses? She must stand on a pyramid of good breeding."
"Oh, no," replies M. Flair; "her father was, I believe, a coal-porter somewhere in London. If only her accent were a little better she might ... the stage ... success ... but—O mon Dieu, these women who do not know themselves!"
So ends an ordinary little comedy of a London day.
St. Antholin's
I went into a City church the other day to hear a sermon that has been going on for three hundred and twenty years!