General conversation round the table is mostly of a political nature, and carried on in foreign languages, the assembled company slipping with ease from one tongue to another. Merle’s partner considerately leaves her alone, remarking with instinctive delicacy that the charming child beside him is troubled, and not in a mood to talk. But presently le Vicomte d’Alençon turns from a spirited contest with the Marchese, to Merle on his other side, and enquires if she has received many gifts in celebration of the day which seventeen years ago was responsible for such a beautiful and talented addition to the world. His tone is sugary and indulgent, as to a petted child. She blushes and deprecates, correcting his mistake—“Twenty-two? Ma non è possibile!”—and watches him return with unmistakable relief to his argument with the Marchese.... “I agree with you, mon ami, he should never have been put in responsible office; I will see what can be done....”
Undoubtedly fascinating to insiders, this game of diplomacy. Merle would not be averse to be admitted as equal to the intricacies of wire-pulling, instead of being tossed an occasional sugar-plum to keep her quiet; but she realizes that these people are justified in thrusting her outside of their world—why is she not in her own? The universe is a series of cosy cubicles, but dreary for the strays who wander beyond the drawn curtains.... She sends a swift thought to the Room, the Perfect Piratical Playroom. Will it be sub-let, now that two of its owners are grown-up? And she imagines a grave discussion with Peter and Stuart on the subject of a suitable tenant, who would be kind to the giraffe, and keep on Squeith as included in the inventory, and....
—Twinkling the pear-shaped emeralds in her ears, the wife of the new Consul asks deferentially of her hostess if her little granddaughter will be allowed to spend a week-end at their country-seat: “My two girls here are of her age, I believe; and they would be so delighted, chère Madame.”
Madame is also delighted, and vouches enthusiastically for Merle’s delight. And the two daughters murmur their double delight, and wish Merle were not so beautiful, and continue to coquette with the young gentlemen from the embassies.
“But lately one never sees cette méchante petite,” shrills the widowed sister-in-law of Madame; “she neglects la vieille tante shamefully.”
“Merle is so much with her special friend,” Madame explains in apology; “Peter Kyndersley—a sweet girl; they are inseparable. Even now they have but just returned from a visit to Devonshire.”
“Ah, she must indeed have enjoyed that,”—they are talking at Merle, not to her—“And how well she is looking.”
“The fresh air,” says Madame; and turns the subject. Youth has received sufficient attention for the moment.
... Dancing before Merle’s eyes, a sudden vision of a tea-party of nice young girls, to celebrate her last year’s natal day, and the arrival of Peter in the rôle of Inseparable Friend, bearing the present of a particularly hideous work-basket: “Dearest Merle, so many happy returns of the day. Just a little remembrance for your birthday; oh, a mere nothing, but I always say it’s the spirit and not the gift that matters!” A murmur of approbation here from grandmother, aunts, and visitors—and Merle, meeting the wicked twinkle in Peter’s eye, controls herself with difficulty.
—Last year.