The captive, innocent of offence, obediently placed chairs in their circle, and gloomily discoursed upon the performance of the orchestra and the shots at the Tir aux Pigeons in correct English and an accent of resigned despair, Dorris, whenever the conversation threatened to become at all interesting, breaking in upon it with some trivial personality.
Mrs. Dinwiddie, fortified by three cups of scented China tea, and refreshed by several deep plunges into a box of superfine bonbons handed her by the thin man, had been drawn from raptures over the kettle-drums into some enlightening hints at the mysteries of American political machinery in different States, of which she had experimental knowledge.
Everybody, especially the Prussian officer, was listening with interest; no one spoke, except to draw out further information; even Ermengarde's familiar demon, the Anarchist, who, to her disgust, was sitting at a table near, drinking something through a long straw, was hanging upon Mrs. Dinwiddie's words, when Dorris, after several baffled attempts by various irrelevant remarks and inept questions, promptly snubbed by the genial Yankee, to plunge headlong into the talk, suddenly shouted, "Mrs. Allonby, I do want to know something very badly," with such energy and emphasis that it was impossible not to give some faint response.
"Yes?" said Ermengarde, politely patient, though she had not forgotten the fair girl's depreciation of her nose, which certainly had a tiny tilt at the tip.
"I want badly to know," Dorris called across Mrs. Dinwiddie, "whether you really are the wife of the Allonby?"
"That is so," echoed the American, her interest suddenly diverted. "Do tell, Mrs. Allonby, are you?"
"How can I tell?" she objected. "I know very well which is my Allonby, but how do I know which is yours?"
"Land's sake!" cried Mrs. Dinwiddie, "Why, the famous Allonby, to be sure—the author of 'Storm and Stress.' Are you a relative of that prominent writer?"
What was the woman driving at? 'Storm and Stress'? Was it—could it be the title of Arthur's latest effusion?
"Well," she replied slowly and thoughtfully, "I never like to be too certain about anything—it is not good manners, so I was brought up to think—but I—ah—I think—yes, I rather fancy that I am—connected with him—the writing-man you are speaking of. As far as I know, he is some sort of a connexion of mine—by marriage—only a connexion by marriage."