Lady B.—“Yes, to have a better look at her. Now, at the theatre, for instance, to me they are particularly annoying, your Frenchmen. Between the acts, they come and stand about in the corridors and near the boxes, and there, a yard or two from you, they will examine you in detail through their opera-glasses. You may think yourself lucky if they do not forthwith pass all sorts of remarks about you. That kind of thing annoys and insults a woman. You may call it gallant, if you like; I call it rude.”
La Comtesse.—“Rather impertinent, I will admit.”
Lady B.—“Impertinent, indeed! that is a mild word for it. Do you know, one evening—it was at the Opera—I was in a box ... a little décolletée ... en losange, you know ... it was very fashionable in 1880.”
La Comtesse.—“It will come in again, you may be sure, c’était mutin en diable.”
Lady B.—“What did you say it was?”
La Comtesse.—“I said it was mutin en diable. Does that shock you?”
Lady B.—“Yes, a little: it reminds me of an expression of my husband’s.”
La Comtesse.—“What expression?”
Lady B.—“I don’t like to tell you.”
La Comtesse.—“What nonsense, dear; it’s only between ourselves: nobody else can hear.”