"Ah," says Brandolin, pensively, "but the physical and moral perfection of Englishwomen always makes them take too high a standard: poor humanity toils hopelessly, and utterly exhausted, many miles behind them."
"Don't talk nonsense," says Mrs. Curzon; "we are no better than our neighbors, perhaps, but we are not afraid of the air, we don't heat our houses to a thousand degrees above boiling-point, we don't gamble,—at least not much,—and we don't talk every language under the sun except our own, and yet not one of them grammatically."
"Decidedly," reflects Brandolin, "Lawrence must have looked too often at Madame Sabaroff."
"Sabaroff is dead, isn't he?" he asked, aloud. "You know I have been out of society for a year: the whole map of Europe gets altered in one's absence."
"Sabaroff was shot in a duel four years ago," replies Mrs. Curzon,—"a duel about her."
"What a fortunate woman! To get rid of a husband, and to get rid of him in such interesting circumstances! C'est le comble de bonheur!"
"That depends. With her it resulted in her exile from court."
"Oh, to be sure; when Russians are naughty they are sent to live on their estates, as riotous children are dismissed to the nursery. Was she compromised, then?"
"Very much compromised; and both men were killed, for the adversary of Sabaroff had been wounded mortally, when, with an immense effort, he fired, and shot the prince through the lungs."
"A pretty little melodrama. Who was the opponent?"