[IV]
With the unerring instinct of the man of the world, Verplank, on entering the crowded salon, divined immediately, among all the women present, the hostess whom he had never seen.
As he bent over her hand, the duchess, who had not an idea how he came there, said in her fluted voice:
“This is really so nice of you. I did not know you were in Paris.”
“Nor did I—until this moment,” answered Verplank, looking as he spoke into the eyes of his hostess who, after the one imperceptible glance with which the mondaine judges and classifies, was wondering in what manner, this man, with his virile face and impeccable presence, had forced Leilah Barouffska to leave him.
“But,” he added, “Monsieur de Joyeuse whom I saw this afternoon told me that you would be at home, and assured me that I might venture to present my homages.”
The duchess displayed her tireless smile. “I am only sorry not to have had them sooner.” She paused. Between her smile, the edges of her teeth showed, false but beautiful. “There is Lady Silverstairs trying to get you to look at her, and very well worth looking at she is.”
Camille de Joyeuse turned for a moment to the reticent young prince who in his diffident way still lingered at her side.
Beyond, at the farther end of the room, notes rippled. Standing near a grand piano, the Roumanian with the flowing hair was preluding a fantasy of his own.