“Réné, Réné?”
“Although I snubbed him,” Miss Iris murmured, stooping to examine upon the toilet-table a beribboned aeroplane filled with sweets, “he looked too charming!”
Mrs. Smee chafed gently her hands.
“I must return to my Friar,” she said.
“He is saying the grossest, the wickedest things!”
“Mr. Smee’s sallies at times are not for young ears,” Mrs. Smee loftily observed. “His witticisms,” she added, “aren’t for everyone.”
“My friend, Miss Tird, who came to watch me dress, was quite upset by his cochônneries!”
“Although your little friend appears scarcely to be nine, she seems dazed by her sex and power,” Mrs. Smee unfavourably commented.
“I’ll have to go, I suppose,” Miss Sinquier sighed, “and see how matters stand.”
“Prenez garde: for when making up, he mostly makes a palette of his hand,” Mrs. Sixsmith said. “I happen to know—because one day he caught hold of me.”