Madame Dépine made a reckless reference to her brooch, but the Princess had a gesture of horror. "And wear your heart on your shawl when your friends come?" she exclaimed poetically. "Sooner my watch shall go, since that at least is hidden in my bosom!"
"Heaven forbid!" ejaculated Madame Dépine. "But if you sold the other things hidden in your bosom!"
"How do you mean?"
"The Royal Secrets."
The "Princess" blushed. "What are you thinking of?"
"The journalist below us tells me that gossip about the great sells like Easter buns."
"He is truly below us," said Madame Valière, witheringly. "What! sell one's memories! No, no; it would not be convenable. There are even people living—"
"But nobody would know," urged Madame Dépine.
"One must carry the head high, even if it is not grey."
It was almost a quarrel. Far below the steam-tram was puffing past. At the window across the street a woman was beating her carpet with swift, spasmodic thwacks, as one who knew the legal time was nearly up. In the tragic silence which followed Madame Valière's rebuke, these sounds acquired a curious intensity.