Until at last I persuaded him to go to bed. “There’s the classes,” said Constance, the well-informed. She had recourse to the torn off strip of petticoat again, and blowing her nose with an air of determination, sniffed back the tears. ‘A little promenade, madame?’ Madame Valade rose from the chintz-covered chair with alacrity and a little rustle of her silken petticoats. From the point of view of most things in the world of employment which a woman can do reasonably well and earn a living by, you’re unripe and half-educated. “Certainly. .
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