"Bad women? Je n'ai joué que ça, madame. 'Really' bad? I tried to make them real!"
"I can say 'L'Aventuriere,'" Miriam interrupted, in a cold voice which seemed to hint at a want of participation in the maternal solicitudes.
"Confer on us the pleasure of hearing you, then. Madame Carré will give you the réplique," said Peter Sherringham.
"Certainly, my child; I can say it without the book," Madame Carré responded. "Put yourself there—move that chair a little away." She patted her young visitor, encouraging her to rise, settling with her the scene they should take, while the three men sprang up to arrange a place for the performance. Miriam left her seat and looked vaguely round her; then, having taken off her hat and given it to her mother, she stood on the designated spot with her eyes on the ground. Abruptly, however, instead of beginning the scene, Madame Carré turned to the elder lady with an air which showed that a rejoinder to this visitor's remarks of a moment before had been gathering force in her breast.
"You mix things up, chère madame, and I have it on my heart to tell you so. I believe it's rather the case with you other English, and I have never been able to learn that either your morality or your talent is the gainer by it. To be too respectable to go where things are done best is, in my opinion, to be very vicious indeed; and to do them badly in order to preserve your virtue is to fall into a grossness more shocking than any other. To do them well is virtue enough, and not to make a mess of it the only respectability That's hard enough to merit Paradise. Everything else is
