“If madame is ready—”
The duchess whisked her handkerchief away and sprang up. She gave one look at Gustave’s grave face, and then, bursting into a merry laugh, caught me by the arm, crying:
“Isn’t it fun, Mr. Aycon? There’s nobody but me! Isn’t it fun?”
[Chapter III.]
The Unexpected that Always Happened.
Everything depends on the point of view and is rich in varying aspects. A picture is sublime from one corner of the room, a daub from another; a woman’s full face may be perfect, her profile a disappointment; above all, what you admire in yourself becomes highly distasteful in your neighbor. The moral is, I suppose, Tolerance; or if not that, something else which has escaped me.
When the duchess said that “it”—by which she meant the whole position of affairs—was “fun,” I laughed; on the other hand, Gustave de Berensac, after one astonished stare, walked to the hall door.
“Where is my carriage?” we heard him ask.