"She will compromise herself at last. Oh, what a comfort it will be!" thought little Madame Mila, carrying her frigate in, full sail airily through the mazes of the cotillon, with a sleeveless bodice on, cut so low that it was really as good—or as bad—as if she had had nothing at all. She did not wish any harm, of course, only, really, Hilda, with a lover like other people, would be so much more natural and agreeable.
"But they will marry, people say," suggested M. des Gommeux, to whom alone she confided these ideas.
"When do people ever say anything that is true?" said Madame Mila, with profound contempt, tossing her little head till the Naval Power of England was in jeopardy. She was irritated to hear Maurice even talk about marriage; it was an improper thing for him even to mention, considering his relation to herself. When he approached any young girl or marriageable woman of any sort, Madame Mila bristled like a little angry terrier that sees a cat; on the whole, she was still more exacting than Mlles.
