‘When I was last in Paris, and the guest of Gambetta (it is a curious fact, by the way, that Gambetta has an exceedingly foul breath, and seldom or never changes his woollen shirt or washes his large feet), our talk turned on a volume which had just appeared, “Parfums de la Chair.” The title having a strong attraction for the not too clean Republican, he had bought the book. He admired it exceedingly. The affair is brought to my memory by the fact that the author is now in London. The other night, when we met at the house of a mutual friend, I asked him if he had ever been at Brussels, and visited professionally at a certain boarding school, and, if so, whether he had acquired there sufficient classical attainments to tell me if the goddess Diana had ever eloped with her music master, or appeared upon the public stage?’
Sutherland rose to his feet, crushing the paper between his clenched hands.
‘It is simply devilish,’ he cried. ‘O that I had the ruffian by the throat! I would choke him like a dog!’
‘I grant you it is horrible,’ said Crieff, ‘but what does it mean?’
‘Cannot you see? It is an infernal plot to ruin an unhappy woman.’
‘There is no doubt as to whom it points?’
‘None.’
‘Diana Vere was her stage name, you see? But is there any truth————’
‘Truth? Do you expect it from these vermin? Their end is calumny, torture their delight. If I were only her brother—even her friend!’
‘Eh, what would you do?’