“His name is Balm de Brézé, vicomte. He is by birth a Belgian, I think; the title, however, is French. He has lived mostly in Paris, but now spends about half of his time here. He married a friend of ours, an American. There is Amabel, in ruby velvet, just inside the library door. A good deal younger than he, yet they seem appropriately matched, somehow.”
“She looks about as foreign as he does. Who’s the one she’s talking to, handsome, dark as night? Never saw such a dark skin before except on a cullud puss’n.”
“I know. He might be an Arab, only he’s very good Tuscan. It’s Mr. Landini,–Hunt and Landini.”
“Ah, the bankers. They do my business, but I’ve never seen the heads before to-night.”
Mrs. Hawthorne’s eyes wandered, as if she said, “Whom 54else do I want to know about?” and Leslie made internal comment upon the fact that Mrs. Hawthorne’s interest was quickened by those individuals precisely whom they had withheld, for reasons, from presenting to her.
Mrs. Hawthorne suddenly pressed closer, and with a little chuckle grasped Leslie’s knee, by this affectionate touch to make herself forgiven for the disrespect about to be shown.
“And who’s Stickly-prickly?”
Leslie had to laugh, too. Impossible not to know which one was meant of all the people in the direction of Mrs. Hawthorne’s glance. He was leaning against the wall between two chairs deserted by the fair, looking off with a slightly mournful indifference at everything and at nothing. His mustache ended in upturned points, his beard was pointed, his hair stood up in little points. He gave the impression besides of one whose nervous temper put out porcupine shafts to keep you off.
“It’s one of our very best friends, Mrs. Hawthorne. Dear old Gerald! Mr. Fane. Shall I go get him and bring him over?”
“No, don’t. I should be scared of him.”