“Then, of course, you speak French like a native?”
“I can make myself understood.”
“I see you are accustomed to under-rate your accomplishments. Shall we go into the next room, and get out of this crush?”
We moved into what was Mrs. Cholmondeley’s boudoir, and was now reserved for sitters-out. Here I recognized several familiar faces. Amongst them the Miss Bennys and their cousin, who were seated in a row watching me. Close beside us, before the fire, stood an animated, not to say noisy group, consisting of half a dozen young men and several girls. One of the latter was the center of attraction; every one of the others seemed to address her, or to wish for her sole attention, and I did not wonder. She appeared to be exceedingly vivacious and amusing, and was pretty and uncommon-looking. Her costume was peculiar, but I rightly guessed it to be the work of a Parisian artiste. The body was of black crêpe de Chine gathered into bands of gold embroidery, the shirt of white brocade, with a thick border of Neapolitan violets; a crimson crêpe scarf was tied negligently round her dainty waist, violets were tucked into her bodice and her hair, which was fair and very abundant. She had penciled, dark eyebrows, and dark gray eyes, which former afforded a striking contrast to her light locks. I never saw any one with a more piquant expression, or with such a wonderfully varied play of features. She wore unusually long gloves, and brandished an enormous black feather fan, as she talked with much volubility. Suddenly she caught sight of my companion, and paused as he said—
“How are you, Miss Chalgrove?”
“Why, Everard!” she exclaimed, “I had no idea you were here, though I knew you were expected. Why did you not come with Maudie?”
“I had only just arrived, and, like you ladies, I had all my unpacking to do, and to dress and fix my hair.”
“But you had no dinner here——?”