“Olga? Are you faint?”
“No; only my slippers are torture.”
“I’d advise you to change them, then!”
“It’s not altogether my feet, dear, that ache....”
“Ah, I see,” Mademoiselle de Nazianzi said, stooping enough to scan the stormy, soul-tossed eyes of her friend: “you’re suffering, I suppose on account of Ann-Jules?”
“He’s such a gold-fish, Rara ... any fingers that will throw him bread....”
“And there’s no doubt, I’m afraid, that lots do!” Mademoiselle de Nazianzi answered lucidly, sinking down by her side.
“I would give all my soul to him, Rara ... my chances of heaven!”
“Your chances, Olga——” Mademoiselle de Nazianzi murmured, avoiding some bird-droppings with her skirt.
“How I envy the men, Rara, in his platoon!”