In the street, before they seated themselves in their carriage, Mrs.
Sheldam shook her head.
"Oh, my dear! What a woman! What a man! I have _such_ a story to tell
you. No wonder you admire these people. The wife is a genius--isn't she
handsome?--but the man--he is an angel!"
"I didn't see his wings, auntie," was the curt reply.
III
The Sheldams always stayed at the same hotel during their annual visits
to Paris. It was an old-fashioned house with an entrance in the Rue
Saint-Honore and another in the Rue de Rivoli. The girl sat on a small
balcony from which she could view the Tuileries Gardens without turning
her head; while looking farther westward she saw the Place de la
Concorde, its windy spaces a chessboard for rapid vehicles, whose
wheels, wet from the watered streets, ground out silvery fire in the
sun-rays of this gay June afternoon. Where the Avenue des Champs Elysees
began, a powdery haze enveloped the equipages, overblown with their
summer toilets, all speeding to Longchamps. It was racing day, and
Ermentrude, feigning a headache, had insisted that her uncle and aunt go
to the meeting.
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