“My dear, what will you do with him?”
“I don’t know. Be revenged on him, some time, for last night’s Jocrissiade.”
Mevrouw van Troyen shut down her teapot with a vigorous snap.
“There he is,” she said, as the bell rang.
“My dear, your tea is not drinkable.”
“What does that matter? Is it not for an admirer?”
Mynheer Mopius entered, looking as smart as a blue-speckled yellow waistcoat could make him. His thin hair was observably neat; he bowed off the retreating Papotier with a grace which bespoke his familiarity with the saloons of the aristocracy.
“I am come, Mevrouw,” he said to the mistress of the mansion, “to express my condolence. I assure you I felt for you last night.”
“Really? You surprise me,” said Helena, meaningly. “Certainly, I deserved your pity. And every one else’s. But these mixed entertainments are always a bore.”
“I was alluding,” replied Mynheer Mopius, solemnly, “to the tragic death of our cousin Otto.”