Princess Napraxine, who had made her little speech languidly, looking at the sea, and extended full length on her Indian cane chair, said with a little smile:
‘My dear, I spoke metaphorically. I did not mean to underrate your friend’s centimètres. I meant merely to explain that if he do look occasionally a poseur it is the fault of Europe, which, ever since he was born, has persisted in worshipping him as one of the incarnations of Mammon. If he had belonged to la grande Juiverie he would have been much happier. Jews can swallow any amount of flattery as they can wear any number of rings. He likes neither.’
‘Count Othmar,’ announced Grégor, ascending the terrace steps from the gardens.
The person announced was a man of some thirty years old, with delicate and handsome features, and an expression at once gentle and cold; his height was great, and his bearing that of a grand seigneur. He looked weary and dissatisfied; yet his life was one of the most envied of Europe. He greeted Napraxine with warmth, the Princess with grace and ceremony; Geraldine and his sister with a rather cold courtesy.
Nadine Napraxine had flushed a little as he kissed her hand; a lovely faint flush which made her cheeks like two pale-pink sea-shells. Geraldine noticed that momentary change of colour, and thought bitterly, ‘She never looked like that for me!’
Napraxine was not so observant; his hospitable soul was filled with the pleasure of welcoming his friend, and he felt angered with his wife because she said so indifferently:
‘I wonder you did not stay amongst the Mongols, Othmar. They must be much more original than we are. They ride all day long, don’t they, over deserts of grass? How enchanting! I wonder you could tear yourself away.’
‘Perhaps it would have been wiser to stay,’ said Othmar, with a meaning which she alone understood. ‘But I fear “the world holds us” too strongly for us to be long content even with a Tartar mare and a fat sheep’s tail. I am fortunate to find you all here. I came from Egypt; I saw your name in a newspaper, and could not resist driving over to La Jacquemerille.’
‘You have your "Berenice"?’