“Auntie, where have you been?”
“Is your mother with you?” Angela asked.
“Mother is locked in her bed-chamber, and mighty sullen. She told me to go to bed. As if anybody could lie quietly in bed with London burning!” added Papillon, her tone implying that a great city in flames was a kind of entertainment that could not be too highly appreciated.
She came flying downstairs in her pretty silken deshabille, with her hair streaming, and flung her arm round her aunt’s neck.
“Ma chatte, where have you been?”
“On the terrace.”
“Fi donc, menteuse! I saw you and my father land at the west stairs, five minutes ago.”
“We had been looking at the fire.”
“And never offered to take me with you! What a greedy pig!”
“Indeed, dearest, it is no scene for little girls to look upon.”