Herr Freudenberg smiled genially.
"Host or guest, who cares so long as we are joyous?" he cried, sitting on mademoiselle's other side. "Although to-night," he added, with a humorous glance at Julien, "it should surely be I who entertains! Dear Marguerite!"
He patted her hand. She looked at him pathetically and he smiled back again.
"Be happy, my child," he begged. "It is gone, that little twinge. It was perhaps jealousy," he whispered in her ear. "Sir Julien has captured many hearts."
She drew a sigh of content. She raised his hand to her lips. Then she dabbed at her eyes with the few inches of perfumed lace which she called a handkerchief. It was passing, that evil moment.
"There is no man in the world," she told him softly, "who should be able to make you jealous. In your heart you know."
He laughed lightly.
"You will make me vain, dear one. Give me your little fingers to hold for a moment. There—it is finished."
He looked around the room with the light yet cheerful curiosity of the pleasure-seeker. Then he leaned over towards Julien.
"What does our shock-headed friend the journalist do in that company?" he asked, with a backward motion of his head.