and far above it. But what did Mademoiselle Paule say?" I inquired.
"She said nothing—she only looked at me."
"Not a bit. She looked at me with strange eyes, in which I could read, 'Go straight, my friend—go straight!' Oh, les femmes, les femmes!"
"What's the matter with them now?"
"They've a mortal hatred of art!"
"It's a true, deep instinct," said Alfred Bonus.
"But what passed further with Madame de Brindes?" I went on.
"She only got into her cab, pushing her daughter first; on which I slammed the door rather hard and came up here. Cela m'a porté sur les nerfs."
"I'm afraid I haven't soothed them," Bonus said, looking for his hat. When he had found it he added: "When the English have beaten us and pocketed our milliards I'll forgive them; but not till then!" And with this he went off, made a little uncomfortable, I think, by Vendemer's sharper