The Prince, regardless of sarcasm, or tempered to endurance of it by long habit, answered placidly:
‘No; it is Othmar.’
The face of Nadine Napraxine changed considerably; the most astute observer could not have decided whether annoyance or gratification was the most visible expression; her eyes lighted with a look different to the mild amusement with which she had greeted Geraldine.
‘Where can he have come from?’ continued her husband. ‘He was in Asia a little while ago. One is always so glad to see him. He is so unlike other people. It is only you, Nadine, who do not appreciate him.’
‘He is poseur,’ said she with languor. ‘But I do not know whether that is reason enough to keep him waiting at the gate?’
‘I forgot,’ said Napraxine. ‘There is no one less poseur, I assure you. Clever as you are, you sometimes mistake. Grégor, beg Count Othmar to join us here.’
The servant withdrew. Princess Nadine put a large peacock fan between her and the sun; she yawned a little.
‘Seven minutes for Grégor to send down to the gate, seven minutes for Othmar to come up from the gate, a minute and a half more for him to traverse the house; we have fifteen minutes and a half in which to vilify our coming friend, as modern hospitality binds us to do. Let us begin. We must be stupid indeed if we cannot kill anybody’s character in a quarter of an hour.’
‘There is no character to kill,’ began her husband.
‘Pardon me! No one can say he is characterless. He is a very marked character.’