“I don’t know why their Excellencies allow their daughters to take so much interest in a beastly bazaar. Bazaars are all the same, wretched things. I came of course, because of the vice-regals.”
“I quite agree with you. Look at Lady Muriel, selling tickets just like any common girl! And who is that she is talking with? Oh, really this is too much.”
“I don’t know, really. Ask Montie.”
The other called to a man, evidently their cavalier, and asked him who Mr. Bang was.
“Oh that fellow,” was the ready response in contemptuous tones, “he comes to Ottawa often. He is a railway navvy, contractor, or something like that. I’ve seen him about the hotels.”
“How dreadful! Just a common navvy. I suppose he’s made money some way. I’ll—”
At this point in the conversation the ladies had sauntered beyond my hearing.
January 11th.
At breakfast this morning I said to Mr. Bang, “You had quite a long conversation with Lady Muriel Saffron last evening.”
“Did I? I was not aware of the fact,” he responded coldly.