“I must look ’em up,” said he. “But meantime, will you tell me how you came to mistake me for him? Has he the Chinese type? Besides, what on earth should a little London literary man be doing at the Countess Wohenhoffen’s?”
“He was standing near the door, over there,” she told him, sweetly, “dying for a little human conversation, till I took pity on him. No, he hasn’t exactly the Chinese type, but he’s wearing a Chinese costume, and I should suppose he’d feel uncommonly hot in that exasperatingly placid Chinese head. I’m nearly suffocated, and I’m only wearing a loup. For the rest, why shouldn’t he be here?”
“If your loup bothers you, pray take it off. Don’t mind me,” he urged gallantly.
“You’re extremely good,” she responded. “But if I should take off my loup, you’d be sorry. Of course, manlike, you’re hoping that I’m young and pretty.”
“Well, and aren’t you?”
“I’m a perfect fright. I’m an old maid.”
“Thank you. Manlike, I confess I was hoping you’d be young and pretty. Now my hope has received the strongest confirmation. I’m sure you are,” he declared triumphantly.
“Your argument, with a meretricious air of subtlety, is facile and superficial. Don’t pin your faith to it. Why shouldn’t Victor Field be here?” she persisted.
“The Countess only receives tremendous swells. It’s the most exclusive house in Europe.”
“Are you a tremendous swell?” she wondered.