“Pooh,” cried Rose, “what matters a name? All you have to do is to ask this gentleman, who is an old friend of mine, to dinner.” And without waiting for a reply, she took Andre by the hand and led him into a brilliantly lighted hall. “You must dine with us,” she exclaimed; “I will take no denial. Come, let me introduce you, M. Andre, M. Gaston de Gandelu. There, that is all settled.”
The man bowed.
“Andre, Andre,” repeated Gandelu; “why, the name is familiar to me,—and so is the face. Have I not met you at my father’s house? Come in; we intend to have a jovial evening.”
“I really cannot,” pleaded Andre. “I have an engagement.”
“Throw it over then; we intend to keep you, now that we have got you.”
Andre hesitated for a moment, but he felt dispirited, and that he required rousing. “After all,” thought he, “why should I refuse? If this young man’s friends are like himself, the evening will be an amusing one.”
“Come up,” cried Rose, placing her foot upon the stairs. Andre was about to follow her, but was held back by Gandelu, whose face was radiant with delight.
“Was there ever such a girl?” whispered he; “but there, don’t jump at conclusions. I have only had her in hand for a short time, but I am a real dab at starting a woman grandly, and it would be hard to find my equal in Paris, you may bet.”
“That can be seen at a glance,” answered Andre, concealing a smile.
“Well, look here, I began at once. Zora is a quaint name, is it not? It was my invention. She isn’t a right down swell to-day, but I have ordered six dresses for her from Van Klopen; such swell gets up! You know Van Klopen, don’t you, the best man-milliner in Paris. Such taste! such ideas! you never saw the like.”