"Dearest madam, I am all ears," he murmured languidly.
"Sir, you behold a deeply-injured woman," said the lady, with a tragic air, and the announcement sounded like the beginning of a very long story.
"Say not so, I beseech you, madam; the character is so odiously common," protested Mr. Topsparkle. "That piquant countenance, those brilliant eyes, bespeak originality. Such a face is designed only to injure, the mission of such beauty is to destroy."
"Ah, sir, there was a day when I knew my power and used it; you who are a frequenter of the opera may perhaps remember the name and person of Coralie Legrand."
"Your person, madam, once seen can never be forgotten; and if I had heard you sing in the opera—"
"Sir, I was a dancer, not a singer," exclaimed the lady, with a wounded air.
"Was, madam; nay, speak not of yourself in the past, 'Fuit Ilium;' say not that such charms are for ever withdrawn from the public eye—that the flame of the candles no longer shines upon that beauty—that some selfish churl, some avaricious hoarder of loveliness, has appropriated so fair a being for his own exclusive property."
"It is true, sir. I who had once half the town at my feet am now mewed up in a stuffy parlour, and scolded if I venture to exchange half a dozen sentences with some aristocratic pretty fellow, or to venture a guinea or so at ombre."
"Soho!" exclaimed Topsparkle, becoming suddenly intent. "Your name, madam, your name, I entreat."
"I was Coralie Legrand, leading dancer in the first division of the ballet at the Royal Haymarket Opera. I am Mrs. Fétis, your valet's ill-used wife; and it is on my husband's account that I venture—"