Just as he reached them, the Comte de St Erme drew Valade a little apart and began to converse with him in rapid French. The primitive superstition of his Puritan forbears was his; and before this the buckler of his education disintegrated. Pay fools with promises. ‘A little promenade, madame?’ Madame Valade rose from the chintz-covered chair with alacrity and a little rustle of her silken petticoats. The very carts and vans and cabs that Wellington Street poured out incessantly upon the bridge seemed ripe and good in her eyes.
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