‘A little promenade, madame?’ Madame Valade rose from the chintz-covered chair with alacrity and a little rustle of her silken petticoats. Then she put more coal on, piled it over the ashes, and stood once more upright. She had arranged for a supper of tea, a boiled egg, and some tinned peaches. But he was so feeble, that it seemed scarcely possible he could offer any effectual resistance in case of an attack. She did not learn the kind of looks she had been bestowing upon him at a convent. There was a bare chance that he had been mistaken. White is proud of her drawing-room evenings.
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