"Oh, M. Hop—Hop—Hopgood," cried the Countess, "if you are a savant, perhaps you know my Axel!"
"And have you taken out a patent for your axel?" asked the diplomat, whose mind reverted to mechanics.
The Countess favored him with one glance through her lorgnettes—a present from the exiled King of Crete—and straightway took her bag and baggage to the hostile camp. For, of course, the young Count Axel was known to Mr. Hopworthy, or at least he so declared.
"Please tell me how you won your Order of the Bull," said Clara to the diplomat, her one remaining hope.
"I think I mentioned that just now," he answered, and conversation perished.
And thus the dinner wore away, a grim succession of demolished triumphs. When after an æon or two Clara gave the signal for retreat, she sought her own reflection in the glass to make sure her hair was still its normal brown.
"Clara," said Mrs. Penfield, when the ladies were alone, "you might at least have warned us whom we were to meet."
Mrs. Fessenden drew herself erect. Her breath came fast, her eyes were bright, and she had nearly reached the limit of forbearance toward Maude.
"Mrs. Penfield—" she began with dignity, but Maude broke in.
"I must have been a baby not to have recognized the name."