“But think of Paris. You have heard of Paris—wonderful, beautiful Paris.”
“You mean the place where the plaster comes from?”
“Yes, and hundreds of things beside. It is the city of delight, with miles of wonderful shops, arcades and picture-galleries, and crowds of the most elegantly dressed people in the world. I believe if I could only see Paris I should be willing to die.”
“You had better see Australia and live,” replied Alec, stumbling on an epigram unconsciously.
“And there is a wonderful garden there, miles long, called the Bois de Boulogne; and now I remember that they have a celebrated horse-race there called the Paris Grand Prize, and all the great people in Europe go to see it.”
“That might be worth looking at,” said Alec, doubtfully; “if those Frenchmen only knew how to ride.”
“And think of the hundreds of ladies all beautifully dressed; not a rag-tag and bob-tail like we have here, but real ladies, with real costumes, every one a study and a delight. Oh, I should like to see it.”
“I don’t believe it’s better than Randwick.”
“Alec, don’t talk like that. It is like some one swearing in a church.”
“That’s all right, Bertha. Don’t you mind me. Of course I know nothing about all these fine things. Australia is good enough for me, but if you want to see these dirty Frenchmen and their painted women, why we will take a trip there some day.”