"Monsieur Roché," Thérèse murmured, and held a card before me.
"I have already told you I will receive no one," I answered, with more than usual tartness, for the afternoon was warm, and the thought of my evening's engagements made me feel that life was unendurable.
"It is a matter of most urgent importance," she so far forgot herself as to urge, and I could scarcely restrain a smile, for through my maid's prim black gown I almost fancied I could hear the rustle of the note that had tempted her to impertinence.
Was it not enough that I had said I was not receiving? And one would assume not, for she still stood there, and the day was too warm to scold her.
But she was an excellent girl, the perfection of maids. To this day I have never met one who could dress my hair as she could, nor one who could understand my peculiar—my dearest friends say exasperating—temper so admirably, and so my heart softened, and, with merely an uplifting of the eyebrows, to show that I noted her persistence, I said I would receive Monsieur Roché. And well I made a virtue of necessity, for he was one who knew not refusal. I turned poor virtue into my necessity, as all did whom Monsieur Roché asked to favor him.
"One would even risk madame's anger for the happiness of seeing her," he murmured, as he took my hand; for, though he held the reputation of one not admiring the sweeter sex, a better gallant for turning a compliment, a more skilful adept in the epigram of flattery, this jaded world has never viewed.
"It is a trying hour for calling, monsieur, unless the reason be most urgent."
"It is most urgent," he gravely assented, as he placed a slender forefinger upon my shoulder. "Ma chère," he continued, softly, "you are the cleverest woman in Paris."
"I should have better liked the compliment had you said the prettiest," I answered, demurely.
"Tut, tut! The whole world tells you that. Why proclaim the obvious? I prefer to be original, and pronounce you the cleverest."