“Madame Marcel des Essarts requests the pleasure of Mr. Stuart Heron’s company at the marriage of her granddaughter Merle with Jean Raoul Théodore, Comte de Cler, at St. George’s, Hanover Square, and afterwards at 63 Lancaster Gate.”
—So Merle was to be married. He had almost forgotten Merle; that exquisite little lady whom for a while he and Peter had taught to become a child and a pirate and a romp; whom they had crinkled out of serene composure into delicious laughter; whom they had dragged from an atmosphere of hothouse vigilance into the keen airs and fleet sweet liberty. Stuart speculated as to whether, after this lapse of time, aught remained in Merle of his influence. One spot rubbed forever bare of the polish, perhaps; one nerve that would always be restless; one memory that could just occasionally sting her from content. He would go to Merle’s wedding, if only to see what sort of a fellow was this Jean Raoul Théodore, Comte de Cler.—“Sure to be a stumor ...” it was a queer thing, but Stuart suspected most men to be stumors, who gathered up his litter of orange-peel.
“I wonder if I did her any good?”...
Mrs. Heron came out of the drawing-room, her hand on Arthur Heron’s arm; Babs following.
“Just think, Stuart: Merle des Essarts is going to be married.” They passed into the dining-room. “I’ve just had the invitation. I believe that Madame des Essarts and I are not on particularly good terms; she neither came to my last big At Home, nor answered the card, nor called afterwards. However.... This Comte de Cler is a most distinguished man. A diplomat. I know him slightly. Much older than the girl, of course; but such charming manners. Isn’t it suitable?”
She asked the question rather anxiously, not quite sure if the son of the house of Heron had not once himself deigned to cast an eye towards la maison des Essarts.
“Merle would be a delightful acquisition in the highest ambassadorial circles,” Stuart assented warmly.
But he still suspected Jean de Cler of being a stumor.