"Oh! in that case," said Marcel, with an equivocal smile which Madame d'Ancourt took for an act of homage, "I can understand that madame la baronne must regard her with profound aversion."
He bowed and retired.
"That man is not by any means ill-bred!" said the baroness, who had observed the dignified and respectful ease of his exit. "His name is Thierry, you say?"
"Like his uncle's the rich man, and like his other uncle, much more favorably known, Thierry the painter of flowers."
"Ah! the painter? I almost knew the excellent Thierry. My husband used to receive him in the morning."
"Everybody received him at all hours, my dear love, at least all people of taste and intelligence; for he was a charming old man, extremely well educated and most agreeable in conversation."
"Baron d'Ancourt apparently lacks taste and intelligence, for he did not choose to have him to dinner."
"I do not say that the baron lacks——"
"Say it, say it, I don't care; I know more about it than you do."
And, having delivered that double-edged retort, the baroness, who had a sovereign contempt for her husband's intellect, but forgave him in consideration of his eminent qualities in the matter of noble birth, indulged in a hearty and good-humored peal of laughter.