"Cent d'as," he says, apparently wholly absorbed in his cards, and moves an ivory counter.
A mild gentle rain is falling, the perfume of half-drowned roses and fresh foliage floats into the room. In one corner sits the only daughter of the widowed hostess, Countess Elli, a dark little girl in a white muslin frock, and near her, in a black silk gown, the governess.
The obligatory half hour which Elli must spend in the drawing-room so as to become accustomed to society, is over. Elli is rejoiced, sixteen-year-old girl that she is. She takes no particular pleasure in the society of grown people, who can no longer pet her as a child, and who must not yet treat her as a young lady.
A rustle of silk and muslin, a shy "Bon soir!" and Mademoiselle retreats with her charge.
Scirocco rises to open the door for the governess, makes her a deep bow as she disappears. Rhoeden also rises, only Pistasch indolently remains seated.
"Pistasch, you might trouble yourself to say good evening to Mademoiselle," says the Countess half jokingly.
"Pardon," replies Pistasch, "pure absent-mindedness, Mimi, and then she is so homely."
"That simplifies matters ten-fold," replies Scirocco, hastily. "One can never be too polite to homely governesses--it is only the pretty ones that are troublesome."
"I do not understand that," says Pistasch, and marks double bézique.
"One never knows how one can be attentive enough to them so as not to vex them, and yet reserved enough not to impress them," says Scirocco, dryly.