He has been wintering in the south of France. He comes to the gay city with no set purpose, or desire. He is alone, and melancholy, and depressed. He thinks he will have a fortnight in Paris, and then start for that long-projected American tour, and the first person he sees and greets in Paris is the Lady Jean.
She has never been a favourite of his, and he is inclined to be curt and avoid her. But she had other schemes in her head, and, unless a man is absolutely discourteous, it is not easy for him to baffle a woman who has set her mind upon deluding him, especially a woman clever and keen as the Lady Jean.
She is very quiet, very subdued. All the fastness and wildness seem to have evaporated. She tells him of her bereavement, her troubles. She speaks sympathizingly of his own, and brings in Lauraine's name so gently and gradually that he cannot take alarm at it. In the end he accepts an invitation to her house. And finds everything so subdued, so decorous, in such perfect good taste, that he thinks Lady Jean's widowhood has produced most salutary effects.
In his present mood gaiety and fastness would have jarred upon, and disgusted him. As it is, all is toned down, chastened, soothing, and in perfect taste. He comes again, and yet again. Lady Jean keeps the foreigners, and shady adventurers, and the Bohemian element carefully out of his sight, and she herself treats him with that consideration and deference always flattering to a young man's feeling when displayed by a woman older than himself, and still beautiful. She mentions the Vavasours casually, Lauraine as being immersed in worldly gaieties. Sir Francis as being abroad at Monte Carlo. The latter fact is true, he having proceeded there in disgust at her obstinacy and coldness, and yet not liking to break with her entirely, because she happens to be the only woman of whom he has never tired.
The fortnight passes, and Keith still lingers. Life has no special object for him at present. The spring has turned cold and bleak, and the American tour may await his own convenience.
One evening he comes to Lady Jean by special invitation. There are a few people there; there is a little music, and a little "play," not very high, not very alarming; but Keith refuses it for a reason that no one there guesses. Play had been a passion with him once. Its dangerous excitement had lured him into the most terrible scrape of that "wild youth" to which Mrs. Douglas is so fond of alluding. Once free of that early trouble, he had solemnly promised Lauraine never to touch card or dice again, and he has kept his word. Lady Jean does not press him, though she looks surprised at his refusal. She sits with him in a dim corner of the room, and lures him on to talk to her as he has done of late.
Watching them with anger and suspicion are two fierce eyes, the eyes of a certain Count Karolyski, of whom no one knows anything except that he is a Hungarian, an expert card player, and a deadly shot.
The count is a devoted admirer of the Lady Jean's. The Count has been first in favour with her for months past, and the Count looks with extreme wrath on this young stripling who appears to have supplanted him, and who is so serenely unconscious of the fact.
The refusal to play irritates him still more. He knows Keith is very rich, and had hoped to revenge his wounded feelings by fleecing him with ease. Keith has frustrated this agreeable project and that fact rankles in the Count's breast, beneath the expanse of white linen and glittering orders that adorn it so lavishly. The evening goes on. Wine is handed round and freely drunk. A little more noise and freedom than usual pervade the pretty, gilded rooms. Lady Jean gets somewhat uneasy. She contrives to get rid of Keith; it does not suit her purpose that he should think of her as anything but highly decorous. When he leaves and she comes back, Count Karolyski throws down his cards, declaring he is tired of play, and comes over to her side.
"You are cruel, madame," he says in French. "You have deserted us the whole evening."