She had never seen Marguerite St.
Just act, but, of course, Paris still rang with her praises, and all art-lovers regretted that she should have married and left them to mourn for her.
Thus the conversation drifted naturally back to England.

Mademoiselle professed a vast interest in the citizen's country of adoption.
"I had always," she said, "thought it an ugly country, with the noise and bustle of industrial life going on everywhere, and smoke and fog to cover the landscape and to stunt the trees." "Then, in future, mademoiselle," he replied, "must you think of it as one carpeted with verdure, where in the spring the orchard trees covered with delicate blossom would speak to you of fairyland, where the dewy grass stretches its velvety surface in the shadow of ancient monumental oaks, and ivy-covered towers rear their stately crowns to the sky." "And the Scarlet Pimpernel?
Tell me about him, monsieur." "Ah, mademoiselle, what can I tell you that you do not already know?
The Scarlet Pimpernel is a man who has devoted his entire existence to the benefit of suffering mankind.

He has but one thought, and that is for those who need him; he hears but one sound the cry of the oppressed." "But they do say, monsieur, that philanthropy plays but a sorry part in your hero's schemes.

They aver that he looks on his own efforts and the adventures through which he goes only in the light of sport." "Like all Englishmen, mademoiselle, the Scarlet Pimpernel is a little ashamed of sentiment.

He would deny its very existence with his lips, even whilst his noble heart brimmed over with it.