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She whispered, her heart in the heels of her Louis Quinze shoes: "Please please don't call it that!" "How can I call it anything else? Besides, has it occurred to you that, should any copies of to-day's issue get through these lines, the Foltlebarres will be thrown into a state of volcanic eruption?" "If the Foltlebarres aren't absolute beetles they'll jump for joy.
Rough on him, and rough on the Foltlebarres, and a facer for Lessie ... and what price the girl? And I was the girl!... It was of me they were talking!..." Her lips writhed back from her white teeth. She winced and shuddered. "Oh! can't you see me sitting and listening, and every word vitriol, burning to the bone?"
Everybody is discussin' it now that the Foltlebarres have left off payin' Lessie not to talk, and provided for her and the youngster out of the estate, and Whittinger's given her a back seat in the family.... That family, too!... Lord! what a rum thing Luck is!"
The Foltlebarres had sat too long on thorns to grumble at Beau's marrying a girl without a dot, who was not only lovely enough to set Society screaming over her, but modest and a lady. Up to the present his tendency had been to exalt Beauty above Breed, and personal attractiveness above moral immaculateness.
Small wonder that she feels her carefully-manicured nails elongating with the desire to scratch and rend. Then she reveals the chief arrow in her quiver. Not for nothing is she the widow of an English nobleman. With all the hereditary dignities of the Foltlebarres she will arm herself, and reduce this presuming stranger to the level of the dust.
They wondered 'why the Lavigne did not star on the programme as a Viscountess? but, of course, they said, 'the Foltlebarres would never stand that!
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