She let out a delighted laugh. “If I were to marry now,” she said, “it would be with a sense of humiliation. These things were common knowledge among the bon ton, who were generously welcoming these unfortunate escapees. But in the appendix of the dictionary she had discovered magic names—Hugo, Dumas, Thackeray, Hawthorne, Lytton. “I’ve been through all that,” she went on, after a pause. He eyed the young couple with the tragic history behind them, and could only suppose that familiarity had dulled their senses. A full-curled wig descended half-way down his back and shoulders; a neckcloth of "right Mechlin" was twisted round his throat so tightly as almost to deprive him of breath, and threaten him with apoplexy; he had lace, also, at his wrists and bosom; gold clocks to his hose, and red heels to his shoes. Somehow or other his reputation as a hardened and unassailable bachelor had won for him during the last few years a comparative immunity from attentions on the part of those women with whom he had been brought into contact. “We will do Paris like the tourists, and thank God here comes dinner. He was suddenly calm.
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