human
My dear child, you look ill to-night; I am glad you have no engagements, said Lady Marabout, as she sat down before the dressing-room fire, toasting her little satin-shod foot--she has a weakness for fire even in the hottest weather--while Flora Montolieu lay back in a low chair, crushing the roses mercilessly.
gpt
You _do_ feel well? I should not have thought so, your face looks so flushed, and your eyes so preternaturally dark. Perhaps it is the late hours; you were not used to them in France, of course, and it must be such a change to this life from your unvarying conventual routine at St. Denis. My love, what was it Lord Goodwood said to you to-day?
human
Do not speak to me of him, Lady Marabout, I hate his name!
gpt
Hate his name? My dearest Flora, why, in Heaven's name?
human
What has he done?
gpt
Who has done anything, then?
human
Oh, no one--no one has done anything, but--I am sick of Lord Goodwood's name--tired of it!
gpt
Tired of it, my dear Flora?
human
Well, tired of it, perhaps from hearing him praised so often, as the Athenian trader grew sick of Aristides, and the Jacobin of Washington's name. Is it unpardonably heterodox to say so?
gpt
My dear child, pray don't speak in that way; that's like Philip's tone when he is enigmatical and sarcastic, and worries me. I really cannot in the least understand you about Lord Goodwood, it is quite incomprehensible to me. I thought I overheard him to-day at Lady George's concert speak very definitely to you indeed, and when he was interrupted by the Duchess before you could give him his reply, I thought I heard him say he should call to-morrow morning to know your ultimate decision. Was I right?
human
Quite right.
gpt
He really proposed marriage to you to-day?
human
Yes.
gpt
And yet you say you are sick of his name?
human
Does it follow, imperatively, Lady Marabout, that because the Sultan throws his handkerchief, it must be picked up with humility and thanksgiving?