“No, but I’m riddled with wounds.”
“Well, this is very remarkable”—the lady reverted to Houdon’s statue. “It’s beautifully modelled.”
“You’re perhaps reading M. de Voltaire,” Littlemore suggested.
“No; but I’ve purchased his works.”
“They’re not proper reading for ladies,” said the young Englishman severely, offering his arm to his charge.
“Ah, you might have told me before I had bought them!” she exclaimed in exaggerated dismay.
“I couldn’t imagine you’d buy a hundred and fifty volumes.”
“A hundred and fifty? I’ve only bought two.”
“Perhaps two won’t hurt you!” Littlemore hopefully contributed.
She darted him a reproachful ray. “I know what you mean—that I’m too bad already! Well, bad as I am you must come and see me.” And she threw him the name of her hotel as she walked away with her Englishman. Waterville looked after the latter with a certain interest; he had heard of him in London and had seen his portrait in Vanity Fair.