“Who would have thought it?”
fleurette danced with aristide, as light as an autumn leaf tossed by the wind
“A fortnight ago she was being killed in a Bloomsbury boarding-house. There were two of ’em—she and a girl called Carrie. I used to call ’em Fetch and Carrie. This one was Fetch. Well, she fetched me, didn’t you, old girl? And now you’re Mrs. Reginald Batterby, living at your ease, eh?”
“Madame would grace any sphere,” said Aristide.
“I wish I had more education,” said Fleurette, humbly. “M. Pujol and yourself are so clever that you must laugh at me.”
“We do sometimes, but you mustn’t mind us. Remember—at the what-you-call-it—the little shanty at Versailles——?”
“The Grand Trianon,” replied Aristide.
“That’s it. When you were showing us the rooms. ‘What is the Empress Josephine doing now?’” He mimicked her accent. “Ha! ha! And the poor soul gone to glory a couple of hundred years ago.”
The little mouth puckered at the corners and moisture gathered in the blue eyes.