Madame Mila did not feel the satire.
"Yes; one could do it in Paris or London; but not in a little place like this," she answered, innocently. "I must let them present her to me—and I must leave a card. That is what's so horrid. The woman is dreadful; she murders all the languages, and the man's always looking about for a spittoon, and calls you my lady. They are too dreadful! But I must go to the ball. Besides, our own people want Maurice to lead the cotillon. Now Guido Salvareo is ill, there's nobody that can come near Maurice———"
"But I suppose he would not dare to go if you were not there?"
"Of course he would not go; the idea! But I mean to go—I must go. I'm only thinking how I can get out of knowing the woman afterwards. It's so difficult in a small place, and I am always so good-natured in those things. I suppose it's no use asking you to come, Hilda? else, if you would, you could cut them afterwards most deliciously, and I should do as you did. Left to myself, I'm always too good-natured."
