“Oh, pull the string, gentlemen and ladies, and the figure moves!”
Now he came smilingly up to us, followed by his friend, a big, stout man, with a military carriage and gray mustache. I recognized him, too, though we did not know him. He was a very rich and important citizen of our Montreal. Of him also I had heard bad things. People said he was “fast.” That was a word they always whispered in Montreal, and shook their heads over, but whenever I heard it, its very mystery and badness somehow thrilled me. Ada said there was a depraved and low streak in me, and I guiltily admitted to myself that she was right.
“What are you girls laughing about?” asked Jimmy, a question that merely brought forth a fresh accession of giggles.
Colonel Stevens was staring at me, and he had thrust into his right eye a shining monocle. I thought him very grand and distinguished-looking, much superior to St. Vidal. Anyway we were tired of the French, having them on all sides of us, and, as I have said, I admired the blond type of men. Colonel Stevens was not exactly blond, for his hair was gray (he was bald on top, though his hat covered that), but he was typically British, and somehow the Englishmen always appeared to me much superior to our little French Canucks, as we called them.
Said the Colonel, pulling at his mustache:
“A laughing young girl in a pink cotton frock is the sweetest thing on earth.”
I had on a pink cotton frock, and I was laughing. I thought of what I had heard Madame Prefontaine say to mama—in a whisper:
“He is one dangerous man—dat Colonel Steven, and any woman seen wiz him will lose her reputation.”
“Will I lose mine?” I asked myself. I must say my heart beat, fascinated with the idea.
