“Who those fine ladies?” she cried, with her hands on my sleeve.
“Who are those ladies?” I corrected.
“Who are those ladies?” Carlotta repeated, like a demure parrot.
“They are friends of mine.”
Then came the eternal question.
“Is she married, the young one?”
“Miss Griggs,” said I, “kindly instil into Carlotta’s mind the fact that no young English woman ever thinks about marriage until she is actually engaged, and then her thoughts do not go beyond the wedding.”
“But is she?” persisted Carlotta.
“I wish to heaven she was,” I laughed, imprudently, “for then she would not come and spoil my morning’s work.”
“Oh, she wants to marry you,” said Carlotta.