“I wish I could do something more to the point with it than adore it,” said Genevieve Rod hastily, then she went on with a laugh: “But I forget..... Monsieur Andreffs.... Monsieur Ronsard.” She made a gesture with her hand from Andrews to a young Frenchman in a cut-away coat, with small mustaches and a very tight vest, who bowed towards Andrews.
“Now we'll have tea,” said Genevieve Rod. “Everybody talks sense until they've had tea.... It's only after tea that anyone is ever amusing.” She pulled open some curtains that covered the door into the adjoining room.
“I understand why Sarah Bernhardt is so fond of curtains,” she said. “They give an air of drama to existence.... There is nothing more heroic than curtains.”
She sat at the head of an oak table where were china platters with vari-colored pastries, an old pewter kettle under which an alcohol lamp burned, a Dresden china teapot in pale yellows and greens, and cups and saucers and plates with a double-headed eagle design in dull vermilion. “Tout ca,” said Genevieve, waving her hand across the table, “c'est Boche.... But we haven't any others, so they'll have to do.”
The older woman, who sat beside her, whispered something in her ear and laughed.
Genevieve put on a pair of tortoise-shell spectacles and starting pouring out tea.
“Debussy once drank out of that cup..... It's cracked,” she said, handing a cup to John Andrews. “Do you know anything of Moussorgski's you can play to us after tea?”
“I can't play anything any more.... Ask me three months from now.”
“Oh, yes; but nobody expects you to do any tricks with it. You can certainly make it intelligible. That's all I want.”
“I have my doubts.”