Followed by a handsome borzoi, and the pomeranian Snob, the pair were taking their usual post-prandial exercise beneath the trees.
“Let me come, Mother, dear,” he murmured without interrupting, “over the other side of you; I always like to be on the right side of my profile!”
“And, really, since the affair of Madame de Bazvalon, my health has hardly been what it was.”
“That foolish little woman,” he uncomfortably laughed.
“He tells me my nerves need rest,” she declared, looking pathetically up at him.
He had the nose of an actress, and ink-black hair streaked with gold, his eyes seemed to be covered with the freshest of fresh dark pollen, while nothing could exceed the vivid pallor of his cheeks, or the bright sanguine of his mouth.
“You go out so much, Mother.”
“Not so much!”
“So very much.”
“And he forbids me my opera-box for the rest of the week! So last night I sat at home, dear child, reading the Life of Lazarillo de Tormes.”