“And yet, my dear Mrs. Adams,” goes on the good doctor, as one determined to conquer for Madame Helvetius the other’s favorable opinion, “you would do wrong to apply a New England judgment to our friend. Her exuberance is of the surface.” Then, quizzically: “A mere manner, I assure you, and counts for no more than should what she is doing now.”
Mrs. Adams lifts her severe gaze at this to Madame Helvetius. That amiable French woman is in rapt and closest converse with Mr. Adams, hand on his shoulder, her widowed lips to his ear. Mr. Adams is standing as one frozen, casting ever and anon a furtive glance, like an alarmed sheep, at Mrs. Adams. For an arctic moment, Mrs. Adams is held by the terrors of that spectacle; then she moves to her husband’s rescue.
Madame Helvetius comes presently to Doctor Franklin.
“What an iceberg!” she remarks, with a toss of the frizzed head towards Mr. Adams. “Does he ever thaw!” Then, as her glance takes in Mrs. Adams: “Poor man! He might be August, missing her. It is she who congeals him.”
And now he, for whom they wait, is announced—Captain Paul Jones. He has about him everything of the salon and nothing of the sea. His amiable yet polished good breeding wins on Mrs. Adams, and even the repellant wintry Mr. Adams is rendered urbane. Captain Paul Jones becomes the instant centre of the little assemblage. And yet, even while he gives his words to the others, his glances rove softly to the girl-Duchess, who stands apart, as might one who for a space—only for a space—permits room to others. The girl-Duchess is polite; she grants him what time is required to offer his greetings all around. Then, in the most open, obvious way, as though none might criticise or gainsay her conduct, she draws him into a secluded corner. They make a rare study, these two; he deferential yet dominant, she proud but yielding.
“Did you see the king?” he asks.
“See him? Am I not, too, a Bourbon?” This comes off with fire.
“Surely! Of course you saw him!” responds Captain Paul Jones, recalling his manner to one of easy matter-of-fact. “Your royal highness will pardon my inquiry.”
The girl-Duchess objects petulantly to the “Royal Highness.”
“From you I do not like it,” she says. “From you”—and here comes a flood of softness, while her black eyes shine like strange jewels—“from you, as you know, my friend, I would have only those titles that, arm-encircled, heart to heart, a man gives to the one woman of his sou’s hope.”