“Oh, you flattering thing! but what will you give my daughters—the Miss Coxes.”
“Oh, I talk to them myself. They not be Miss Coxe long, I think. Miss Florence make a very nice bride, and Miss Constance bootiful Comtesse.”
“Git along; but what do you mean? Fill your glass.” Lady Coxe as a fugleman showed the way.
“They tell me such a ’andsome man want to marry her—noble and rich.”
“English or furrin, Mélanie?”
“Not English.”
“You know ’im to be rich?”
“Oh yes, I know him rich. Miladi know poor woman like me obliged to make affair with all sort of people. One of my customers, Mademoiselle Dulaugier of Opera Comique. I send all her bill to Comte Rabelais, and he pay, what you call, on the nail.”
“Very satisfactory,” responded Lady Coxe. “Let me ’ope Constance may be the means of leading ’im to better things.”
“Indeed, let us hope so,” said Mélanie, and this time she held her glass to her lips for some seconds, though the liquid within was not much diminished.