"No," resumed her ladyship, affecting to misunderstand Mercy's
movement, "you are not to go up now and dress. There is no time, and I
am quite ready to excuse you. You are a foil to me, my dear. You have
reached the perfection of shabbiness. Ah! I remember when I had my whims
and fancies too, and when I looked well in anything I wore, just as you
do. No more of that. As I was saying, I have been thinking and planning
what we are to do. We really can't stay here. Cold one day, and hot the
next--what a climate! As for society, what do we lose if we go away?
There is no such thing as society now. Assemblies of well-dressed mobs
meet at each other's houses, tear each other's clothes, tread on each
other's toes. If you are particularly lucky, you sit on the staircase,
you get a tepid ice, and you hear vapid talk in slang phrases all
round you. There is modern society. If we had a good opera, it would be
something to stay in London for. Look at the programme for the season
on that table--promising as much as possible on paper, and performing
as little as possible on the stage. The same works, sung by the same
singers year after year, to the same stupid people--in short the dullest
musical evenings in Europe. No! the more I think of it, the more plainly
I perceive that there is but one sensible choice before us: we must go
abroad. Set that pretty head to work; choose north or south, east or
west; it's all the same to me. Where shall we go?"
Mercy looked at her quickly as she put the question.
Lady Janet, more quickly yet, looked away at the programme of the
opera-house. Still the same melancholy false pretenses! still the same
useless and cruel delay! Incapable of enduring the position now forced
upon her, Mercy put her hand into the pocket of her apron, and drew from
it Lady Janet's letter.
"Will your ladyship forgive me," she began, in faint, faltering tones,
"if I venture on a painful subject? I hardly dare acknowledge--" In
spite of her resolution to speak out plainly, the memory of past love
and past kindness prevailed with her; the next words died away on her
lips. She could only hold up the letter.
Lady Janet declined to see the letter. Lady Janet suddenly became
absorbed in the arrangement of her bracelets.
"I know what you daren't acknowledge, you foolish child!" she exclaimed.
"You daren't acknowledge that you are tired of this dull house. My dear!
I am entirely of your opinion--I am weary of my own magnificence; I long
to be living in one snug little room, with one servant to wait on me.
I'll tell you what we will do. We will go to Paris, in the first place.
My excellent Migliore, prince of couriers, shall be the only person in
attendance. He shall take a lodging for us in one of the unfashionable
quarters of Paris. We will rough it, Grace (to use the slang phrase),
merely for a change. We will lead what they call a 'Bohemian life.' I
know plenty of writers and painters and actors in Paris--the liveliest
society in the world, my dear, until one gets tired of them. We will
dine at the restaurant, and go to the play, and drive about in shabby
little hired carriages. And when it begins to get monotonous (which it
is only too sure to do!) we will spread our wings and fly to Italy, and
cheat the winter in that way. There is a plan for you! Migliore is in
town. I will send to him this evening, and we will start to-morrow."