"La discretion défend de questionner, la délicatesse défend même de deviner."
We were a quiet party that evening, Madame having decided to ask no one to meet us. It was like a piece of the old Paris life, for all had met for better or worse in that city, and spoke the language of the once brilliant capital.
Madame insisted that I should take the head of the table, she herself occupying a chair at the foot, which had remained vacant as long as I could remember. So I sat for the first time in the seat of my ancestors, whence my father had issued his choleric mandates, only, I fear, to be answered as hotly.
"You are quiet, Monsieur," said Lucille, who sat at my right hand, and I thought her glance searched my face in a way that was new.
"Say he is dull," put in Alphonse, whose gaiety was at high-water mark. "Ce cher Dick—he is naturally so."
And he laughed at me with his old look of affection.
"Mademoiselle means that I am duller than usual," I suggested.
"No," said Lucille, "I meant what I said."
"As always?" inquired Alphonse, in a low voice aside.
"As always," she answered, gravely. And I think she only spoke the truth.