fault. But that spiteful boy delights in playing all sorts of tricks.
You are his patron, it seems. Well, I warn you that one fine morning I shall deprive myself of the pleasure of his further acquaintance.”
“What have I done wrong now?” cried Colia. “What was the good of telling you that the prince was nearly well again? You would not have believed me; it was so much more interesting to picture him on his death-bed.”
“How long do you remain here, prince?” asked Madame Epanchin.
“All the summer, and perhaps longer.”
“You are alone, aren’t you, — not married?”