Eva and Mademoiselle Legrand had turned with Pierre to look at the magnificent sunset. "Did you receive the flowers I sent this morning?" said Pierre, bending his head so that if Eva should glance up when she answered, he should be able to look into her eyes.
"Yes; they were beautiful," said Eva, giving the hoped-for glance.
"Yet they are not in the drawing-room."
"You noticed that?" she said, smiling. "They are in the music-room; Mademoiselle put them there."
"They are the flowers for Mozart, are they not?" said Mademoiselle—"heliotrope and white lilies; and we have been studying Mozart this morning. The drawing-room, as you know, Monsieur le Comte, is always full of roses."
"And how do you come on with Mozart?" asked Pierre.
"As usual," answered Eva. "Not very well, I suppose."
Mademoiselle twisted her handkerchief round her fingers. She was passionately fond of music; it seemed to her that her pupil, who played accurately, was not. Pierre also was fond of music, and played with taste. He had not perceived Eva's coldness in this respect simply because he saw no fault in her.
"I want to make up a party for the Deserto," he went on, "to lunch there. Do you think Madame Churchill will consent?"