Eline puckered up her little mouth contemptuously.
“Let us move aside a little. There is more room there,” she lisped.
She made her escape deftly from the circle of the geniuses, and with a sigh sank down on a settee. Nervously her fingers played about the dull gold beads that covered her low-necked corsage of black satin as with a glistening ray.
“Oh, those people do bore me,” she said with light disdain. “What sort of time did you spend in Ghent and in Bruges? Come, tell me something about it.”
He remained standing beside her, and told her a little of his trip. Here and there little groups formed themselves. The footman served wine and refreshments.
“But what is to happen this evening, I wonder?” asked St. Clare with curiosity, as he suddenly broke off his conversation.
Elise was standing, all amiability, writhing herself into all sorts of bows and curtseys before the count, and people looked round at them and whispered. The count seemed bashful, and made some excuses.
“No, don’t disappoint me, pray,” Elise was heard to say in a beseeching tone.
“I suppose she is asking him to recite something, and he is shy,” laughed Eline. [[275]]
Eline was right. Elise cast a glance of triumph in the direction of some of the ladies, and the count, with a movement as if he could not help it, assumed an attitude and coughed. He would recite an epic poem, Pizarro’s account of the conquest of Mexico, of Montezuma, and the Aztecs.