"Anywhere you like."
"Very well. 'Theatre of Varieties, Westminster; every night, at 8:30, Tottie Rosebud will sing "Then she wunk the other eye." Admission—'"
"O Frank! How horrid you are!"
"Am I? You told me to read anywhere, so I took the first paragraph that my eyes fell on. However, as you don't like that, I'll turn to something else. 'Letter from Paris.' Would you like that?"
"Yes, that will do," she replied, composing her dainty little person comfortably in the big armchair.
So, compliant with her will, I began to read the lively letter of that mysterious personality, "Our Own Correspondent," keeping a cautious eye ahead, in case I should be landed before I was aware of it on some Parisian doings whose recital might offend the susceptibilities of my fair cousin, equally with those of that staid old lady, the British Matron. I had not read more than half a column, when my eye lighted upon a name that drew from me an exclamation of surprise.
"What's the matter, Frank?"
"Here's that fellow Vasari's name."
"Fellow Vasari, indeed!" returned Daphne with mock dignity. "Do you mean the eminent artist, Signor Angelo Vasari?"