“Yes,” he said, brusquely, resuming the queer stiffness of attitude that had so deeply puzzled her when he had first adopted it. “It is quite a while since I came.” And for the second time he said, “How are you?”
“So-so,” she answered, all liveliness of tone and gesture momentarily eclipsed. “One is always so-so, is one not, in this good old Paris?”
“You should be far better than so-so, even here,” he stated, with astonishing severity, “you, whom the gods have showered with all blessings.”
“Have a cigarette!” she shrugged, pushing from beneath the hortensias a silver box and match-stand.
“No, thanks. I don’t care to smoke here. Your father says it oxidizes the ermines.”
“Papa? Nonsense! He never dreamt of caring for the ermines’ health. Besides, they are old enough to look after themselves. They are pretty, though!” she added, pointing to the heraldic ermines of Brittany embroidered in silver relief all over the pale satin of walls and hangings. “Pretty and antique,” she concluded, meditatively.
“Like most of your ideas,” he stated, leaning back and contemplating the intenseness of the hortensias.
She glanced at him between half-closed lashes, an imperceptible frown wrinkling her eyebrows.
“You find me too old-fashioned?” she questioned, drumming softly on the lid of the cigarette-box with the fingers of her left hand.
“N-no—yes. I don’t know; and, moreover, it’s none of my business.”