‘That was not what I meant,’ said Napraxine. ‘I meant that no one could say otherwise than good of him. And if there were such a one, he should not say it before me.’
Nadine Napraxine let her eye rest on her husband with a peculiar expression, half pity, half derision, which might have given him plentiful food for reflection, had he been a man who ever reflected.
‘Poor Platon! He has all the antique virtues!’ she said softly. ‘He even thinks it necessary to defend his acquaintances behind their backs. Quel type admirable!’
‘Why do you like Othmar, Prince?’ said Geraldine, abruptly. ‘I detest him.’
‘Indeed?’ said Napraxine, in surprise. ‘You must be almost alone, then. What do you see to dislike?’
Geraldine glanced at his hostess, but she refused to accept the challenge of his regard. She was looking out to sea with a little dreamy amused smile.
‘I hate all financiers,’ said Geraldine, moodily and lamely. ‘La grande Juiverie is one gigantic nest of brigands; those men get everything, whilst we lose even our old acres.’
‘Perhaps that is your fault,’ said Prince Platon; ‘and Othmar, believe me, has nothing to do with the Juiverie; the Othmar are pure Croats; Croats loathe Hebrews.’
‘He is very fortunate, Prince, to have your admiration and your confidence,’ said Geraldine, with a sarcasm, lost on the pachydermatous placidity of his host.