Du Roy remarked: “What a mixed salad of society.”
Boisrenard, who shook hands with him, had also adorned his buttonhole with the green and yellow ribbon worn on the day of the duel. The Viscountess de Percemur, fat and bedecked, was chatting with a duke in the little Louis XVI boudoir.
George whispered: “An amorous tête-à-tête.”
But on passing through the greenhouse, he noticed his wife seated beside Laroche-Mathieu, both almost hidden behind a clump of plants. They seemed to be asserting: “We have appointed a meeting here, a meeting in public. For we do not care a rap what people think.”
Madame de Marelle agreed that the Jesus of Karl Marcowitch was astounding, and they retraced their steps. They had lost her husband. George inquired: “And Laurine, is she still angry with me?”
“Yes, still so as much as ever. She refuses to see you, and walks away when you are spoken of.”
He did not reply. The sudden enmity of this little girl vexed and oppressed him. Susan seized on them as they