“I don’t think you ought to speak in this way of my friends,” she remarked.
“I suppose I am rude, and I beg your pardon. But they’re not your friends. They are a troupe of mountebanks whom you engage to entertain you. Come out on to the loggia.”
“And catch my death of cold? No, thank you.”
“You have scarcely spoken a word to me all the evening.”
“I speak to those who amuse me.”
“With blackguardly French stories.”
“That’s my affair.”
“I don’t like to see those fellows leering at you,” he said, sulkily.
To such a point of intimacy had three weeks’ intercourse brought them. Minna broke into the low notes of her laughter.
“Why shouldn’t they? It pleases them and doesn’t hurt me. And vice versa. Also, you know, I’m not a monopolisable woman. If you’ll go and talk nicely to Madame Raborski, I’ll let you give me some supper.”