"The journalist below us tells me that gossip about the great sells
like Easter buns."
"He is truly below us," said Madame Valiere, witheringly. "What! sell
one's memories! No, no; it would not be _convenable_. There are even
people living--"
"But nobody would know," urged Madame Depine.
"One must carry the head high, even if it is not grey."
It was almost a quarrel. Far below the steam-tram was puffing past.
At the window across the street a woman was beating her carpet with
swift, spasmodic thwacks, as one who knew the legal time was nearly
up. In the tragic silence which followed Madame Valiere's rebuke,
these sounds acquired a curious intensity.
"I prefer to sacrifice the lottery rather than honour," she added, in
more conciliatory accents.