"You met him, then, at the door,, with my sister? I supposed you had—he's taking her home," said Nick.
"Your sister's a lovely girl—such an aristocratic type!" breathed Mrs. Rooth. Then she added: "I've a tremendous confession to make to you."
"Mamma's confessions have to be tremendous to correspond with her crimes," said Miriam. " She asked Miss Dormer to come and see us—suggested even that you might bring her some Sunday. I don't like the way mamma does such things—too much humility, too many simagrées, after all; but I also said what I could to be nice to her. Your sister is charming—awfully pretty and modest. If you were to press me I should tell you frankly that it seems to me rather a social muddle, this rubbing shoulders of 'nice girls' and filles de théâtre; I shouldn't think it would do your young ladies much good. However, it's their own affair, and no doubt there's no more need of their thinking we're worse than we are than of their thinking we're better. The people they live with don't seem to know the difference—I sometimes make my reflections about the public one works for."
"Ah, if you go in for the public's knowing differences you're far too particular," Nick laughed. "D'où tombez-vous? as you affected French people say. If you have anything at stake on that, you had simply better not play."
"Dear Mr. Dormer, don't encourage her to be so dreadful; for it is dreadful, the way she talks," Mrs. Rooth broke in. "One would think we were not respectable—one would think I had never known what I have known and been what I have been."
