“Dear Walter! she means I shall be so much improved,” explained the wife, laughing.
“Improved!” repeated Mr. Clifford, not lifting his eye-brows, but writing incredulity on every line of his face.
His wife blushed, and her eyes rested on his for a moment. Then, turning quickly to Madame Folibel, she made some final arrangement about a meeting for the following day.
Just at this juncture Berthe came back. I was glad she was not there in time to catch the absurd little passage between the two. A husband paying a compliment to his wife, and she blushing under it after a ten years’ ménage, would have been a delicious morsel of the ridicule anglais that Berthe could not have withstood; it would have diverted her salon for a week.
“Well?” she said, five notes of interrogation plainly adding: “Are you ever going to have done?”
“C’est décidé,” answered Madame Folibel, coming forward with an air of triumph. “Madame sacrifices the comb!”
“Excellent!” exclaimed Berthe. “I congratulate you, chère madame. Even mentally, you will be the better of it. For my part, I know no little misery more demoralizing than an unbecoming bonnet.”
We all went down-stairs together, but at the street-door we parted from the Cliffords.
“Where are you going now?” asked Berthe.
“To the réunion at the Rue de Monceau,” I said. “I got the faire-part last night, and I want particularly to be there to try and get a child into the Succursale school. There is only one vacancy, and we are six trying for it, so I fear my little protégée has small chance of success. Come and give me your vote, Berthe.”