“Naturally,” laughed Margaret maliciously, “I’m an American, ambassador. Did you dream that even Bernhardt could excel one?”
“Bien! I admire your patriotism, also,” he replied smiling.
“Oh, it’s only the screech of the eagle! Of course you are all enthusiastic—all except you, William,” she added abruptly, whirling around to confront Fox with a teasing glance, “you are mute; didn’t I please you?”
He smiled. “You bewildered me; the sudden transitions are confusing. Where did you learn the dance?”
She put her head on one side. “Last week—that’s all I shall ever tell you!” she replied, “but I want Bobby Allestree to paint my portrait dancing. Wicklow would prize it so highly,” and she laughed wickedly.
“Allestree is painting a portrait now, I think,” Fox said, to turn her aside from a dangerous channel, “Miss Temple’s, I believe.”
Margaret’s eyes widened and she looked keenly at him, an indescribable change in her face. “Rose—yes,” she said slowly, “have you seen it?”
He shook his head. “I saw her for the first time to-night.”
She made no immediate reply. M. de Caillou and Berkman had begun to talk together, and the others were already engaged in animated conversation; the controversy between the Italian and the Frenchman having been resumed was rising in a staccato duet. Fox was abruptly aware of a stir in the room beyond and surmised the arrival of evening guests, but his hostess was apparently oblivious.
“She is supremely lovely at times,” she said quietly, after a moment, “but—but not exactly a beauty. What do you think of her?”