The Monster. Saltus Edgar
informant, the tale of an assault committed before all Paris, before all Paris that is, that happened to be at the races that day; an extravaganza in which the heroine, erupting suddenly on the pelouse before the Grand Stand, had, with her parasol, struck the hero over the head and had been about to strike him again, when he, pinioning her arms with his own, had to the applause of everybody, prevented the second assault by kissing her through her veil; after which releasing the lady, he had raised his hat and strolled away.
“Was it you, Barouffski?” Mme. de Fresnoy, the narrative at an end, inquired. “Was it?”
“I? Nonsense! Why should you ask?”
“It would be just like you, you know. Besides, I hear that the man was tall and good-looking.”
“You are exceedingly complimentary. But the world is peopled with tall, good-looking men.”
“Pas tant que ça,” laughed the baroness. “Well, if it was not you, perhaps it was that man who is just coming in.”
Involuntarily Barouffski turned, while a footman bawled:
“Monsieur Verplank!”
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