“If we return by this afternoon’s steamer,” he remarked, “we shall have Bernadine for a fellow passenger. Bernadine is annoyed with us just now. I must confess that I should feel more at my ease with a few thousand miles of the Atlantic between us.”
“Let it be so,” Sogrange assented. “We will explore this marvelous city. Never,” he added, taking his companion’s arm, “did I expect to see such women save in my own, the mistress of all cities. So chic, my dear Baron, and such a carriage! We will lunch at one of the fashionable restaurants and drive in the Park afterwards. First of all, however, we must take a stroll along this wonderful Fifth Avenue.”
The two men spent a morning after their own hearts. They lunched astonishingly well at Sherry’s and drove afterwards in Central Park. When they returned to the hotel, Sogrange was in excellent spirits.
“I feel, my friend,” he announced, “that we are going to have a very pleasant and, in some respects, a unique week. To meet friends and acquaintances, everywhere, as one must do in every capital in Europe, is, of course, pleasant, but there is a monotony about it from which one is glad sometimes to escape. We lunch here and we promenade in the places frequented by those of a similar station to our own, and behold! we know no one. We are lookers on. Perhaps for a long time it might gall. For a brief period there is a restfulness about it which pleases me.”
“I should have liked,” Peter murmured, “an introduction to the lady in the blue hat.”
“You are a gregarious animal,” Sogrange declared. “You do not understand the pleasures of a little comparative isolation with an intellectual companion such as myself... What the devil is the meaning of this!”
They had reached their sitting-room and upon a small round table stood a great collection of cards and notes. Sogrange took them up helplessly, one after the other, reading the names aloud and letting them fall through his fingers. Some were known to him, some were not. He began to open the notes. In effect they were all the same—what evening would the Marquis de Sogrange and his distinguished friend care to dine, lunch, yacht, golf, shoot, go to the opera, join a theatre party? Of what clubs would they care to become members? What kind of hospitality would be most acceptable?
Sogrange sank into a chair.
“My friend,” he exclaimed, “they all have to be answered—that collection there! The visits have to be returned. It is magnificent, this hospitality, but what can one do?”
Peter looked at the pile of correspondence upon which Sogrange’s inroad, indeed, seemed to have had but little effect.