ham answered, radiantly, recklessly; feeling now only that he would say anything, do anything, to please her. He spent on the spot, in imagination, his last penny.
"It's such a pity you couldn't follow it; you would have liked it so much better," Mr. Dashwood observed to his hostess.
"Couldn't follow it? Do you take me for une sotte?" the celebrated artist cried. "I suspect I followed it de plus près que vous, monsieur!"
"Ah, you see the language is so awfully fine," Basil Dashwood replied, looking at his shoes.
"The language? Why, she rails like a fish-wife. Is that what you call language? Ours is another business."
"If you understood—if you understood you would see the greatness of it," Miriam declared. And then, in another tone, "Such delicious expressions!"
"On dit que c'est très fort. But who can tell if you really say it?" Madame Carre demanded.
"Ah, par exemple, I can!" Sherringham exclaimed.
"Oh, you—you're a Frenchman."
"Couldn't he tell if he were not?" asked Basil Dashwood.
The old woman shrugged her shoulders. "He wouldn't know."
"That's flattering to me."
"Oh, you—don't you pretend to complain," Madame Carré said. "I prefer our imprecations—those of Camille," she went on. "They have the beauty des plus belles choses."
"I can say them too," Miriam broke in.
"Insolente!" smiled Madame Carré. "Camille doesn't squat down on the floor in the middle of them."
