“I think I remember the occasion,” Laurence acquiesced without much enthusiasm; “and tell me, Cousin Régis”—this was the first time she had thus honored him—“is Marguerite ... are they coming down later?”
“No,” Régis responded. “Marguerite does not like society; and as to Madame de Montemare, she claims that her circle of acquaintances is already too large, so she firmly refuses to increase it.”
“Too bad! Too bad!” Laurence remarked, with a faint sigh of relief, her brilliant eyes roving over the magnificent drawing-room with its Louis XIV. furniture and tapestries lighted by many antique lamps, and wax candles in sconces and appliques half drowned in verdure and flowers.
“It is charming here!” she approved. “So mellow and distingué; different, altogether different from any place I know.”
Régis smiled a mere smile and bowed a little bow that vexed Laurence, in spite of her lovely thick skin.
“You are very good!” the master of this “mellow” and “distingué” establishment admitted. “It has the merit of antiquity in a time altogether too modern—according to my poor views at least.”
“You are a hardened Royalist!” she observed, with the least suspicion of a sneer. “A lover of all that no longer exists.”
“And you, madame, are assuredly Imperial and modern à outrance!” he retorted with another bow.
“In Russia one has to be an Imperialist,” she said, densely; “but politics do not interest me.”
“Even in Russia?” he asked, curiously.