Peter Ruff took her hands in his and raised them gallantly to his lips.
“Madame,” he said, “this is a pleasure indeed. At my last visit here, you were in Italy.”
“I grow old,” she answered. “I leave Paris but little now. Where one has lived, one should at least be content to die.”
“Madame speaks a philosophy,” Peter Ruff answered, “which as yet she has no need to learn.”
The old lady turned to a man who stood upon her right:
“And this from an Englishman!” she exclaimed.
There were others who took Peter Ruff by the hand then. The servants were handing round coffee in little Sevres cups. On the sideboard was a choice of liqueurs and bottles of wine. Peter Ruff found himself hospitably entertained with both small talk and refreshments. But every now and then his eyes wandered back to where Madame sat in her chair, her hair as white as snow—beautiful still, in spite of the cruel mouth and the narrow eyes.
“She is wonderful!” he murmured to a man who stood by his side.
“She is eighty-six,” was the answer in a whisper, “and she knows everything.”
As the clock struck two, a tall footman entered the room and wheeled Madame’s chair away. Several of the guests left at the same time. Ruff, when the door was closed, counted those who remained. As he had imagined would be the case, he found that there were eight.