“One hears it elsewhere. It comes pretty straight. Your fat Mephisto selected an agent, a young society man, who let it out over his cups.”
Mrs. Wilbur was silent. The procession wound on, with companies of regular troops and boyish-looking militia, then endless organizations of labour in black suits, carrying many little banners. By this time the press about the carriage relaxed; the street became once more passable.
“I am on my way home,” Mrs. Wilbur remarked. “If you are going south, I will take you.”
Erard accepted the offered seat, and the coachman began the intricate process of retreat. “I have not seen you for a long time.” Erard looked at his companion closely.
“No! It’s been a strange year! And now I hear news of your accepting us permanently.”
Erard smiled. “I shall spend next winter in Rome.”
She sighed.
“And you?”
“Here, I suppose, unless the impossible happens.”
The carriage had gained the avenue once more beyond the procession. They could hear the booming of the cannon from the ships in the harbour: the speeches had begun.