“You mean about the dogs?”
“Yes. I never got the rights of it. What was he doing there? Is she living in the past?”
Violet raised her opera-glass.
“She would be very lucky if she could be; living in the present is so expensive, don’t you think?”
Again there was a quick click. The door opened. Silverstairs, filling the entrance with his tall stature, reappeared.
“Violet,” he began, “the Helley-Quetgens are going on to some dance in the Faubourg, and Leilah wants the three of us to sup with her at Paillard’s. What do you say?”
Violet laughed. “I say it will be just my chance.” She turned to Tempest. “You will come?”
“Thanks, yes. Isn’t that de Fresnoy with the Zubaroffs?”
Silverstairs, without sitting down, raised his glass.
“Yes, and I was just saying, this is the first time since his duel that I have seen him. But what an asinine affair that was! He lunged at Barouffski’s neck, Barouffski knocked the foil up and pricked himself on the chin with it. Then Barouffski’s surgeon stopped the fight on the ground that it might interfere with his breathing. Fancy that! Afterward, in the account given to the press, the surgeon described the prick as an incisive wound in the hyoïdian region, accompanied by a notable flow of blood. Anyone who did not know would have thought that Barouffski had been nearly done for. But that’s a French duel for you—a funeral at which everybody giggles.”