"Who _are_ those ladies?" Carlotta repeated, like a demure
parrot.
"They are friends of mine."
Then came the eternal question.
"Is she married, the young one?"
"Miss Griggs," said I, "kindly instil into Carlotta's mind the
fact that no young English woman ever thinks about marriage until
she is actually engaged, and then her thoughts do not go beyond
the wedding."
"But is she?" persisted Carlotta.
"I wish to heaven she was," I laughed, imprudently, "for then she
would not come and spoil my morning's work."
"Oh, she wants to marry you," said Carlotta.
"Miss Griggs," said I, "Carlotta will resume her studies," and I
went upstairs, sighing for the beautiful tower with a lift
outside.
July 14th.
Pasquale came in about nine o'clock, and found us playing cards.
He is a bird of passage with no fixed abode. Some weeks ago he
gave up his chambers in St. James's, and went to live with an
actor friend, a grass-widower, who has a house in the St. John's
Wood Road close by. Why Pasquale, who loves the palpitating
centres of existence, should choose to rusticate in this
semi-arcadian district, I cannot imagine.
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