"I have been told," she remarked, rather scornfully, "that gentlemen are fond of the society of chorus-girls—I suppose they enjoy a certain freedom there that they don't meet elsewhere."
"Neither Miss Ross nor Miss Girond is a chorus-girl," he said—though he wasn't going to lose his temper over nothing.
"They have both sung in the chorus," she retorted, snappishly.
"That is neither here nor there," he said. "Why, what does it matter how we go down, when we shall all meet there on a common footing? It was an obviously simple arrangement—Sloane Street is on my way, whether I go by road or rail—"
"Oh, pray don't make any apology to me—I am not interested in the question," she observed, in a most lofty manner, as she still affected to be examining her dress in the mirror.
"I wasn't making any apology to anybody," he said, bluntly.
"Or explanation," she continued, in the same tone. "You seem to have a strange fancy for foreigners, Mr. Moore; and I
suppose they are glad to be allowed to practice talking with any one who can speak decent English."
"Nina—I mean Miss Ross—is an old friend of mine," he said, just beginning to chafe a little. "It is a very small piece of courtesy that I should offer to see her safely down to Richmond, when she is a stranger, with hardly any other acquaintance in London—"
"But pray don't make any excuse to me—what have I to do with it?" Miss Burgoyne said, sweetly. And then, as she gathered up her long train and swung it over her arm, she added, "Will you kindly open the door for me, Mr. Moore?" And therewith she passed out and along the corridor and up into the wings—he attending her, for he also was wanted in this scene.