Miss Anthon laughed. Erard was so sure in his judgments that he gave a companion a sense of fellow-superiority.
“And Mrs. Warmister?”
Erard’s furtive eyes gleamed maliciously. “She wants badly to be wicked, but some remote, inherited scruple keeps her to the letter of virtue. She catches a few ideas and phrases here and works them off over there. She would do anything for a sensation, for réclame!”
“Do you treat all of us in the same way?” Miss Anthon questioned awkwardly. “Use us and then sneer at us?”
“Do you put yourself in the same category with Salters and Mrs. Warmister?”
“But I don’t remember to have heard you say anything civil of any one—except, possibly, Uncle Sebastian. And you always mention him with tolerant compassion.” She was wondering, as she spoke, if this were an inevitable condition of the Napoleonic genius, to admit no worth except one’s own.
“You surely need not complain.” Erard lowered his voice deferentially. “Haven’t I treated you as an equal? I have had it in mind to ask you to read the manuscript of my new book on the late Spanish renaissance.”
“Oh, how I should like to!” she exclaimed enthusiastically, once more loyal to her admiration.
“And there are some manuscripts here in Paris in the National Library that you could work over for me, if Mrs. Anthon would permit.” Her face lighted responsively. “You see, my dear Miss Anthon, that you can be of more service in our work than as a mere source of supplies.”
She recognized a little sadly the evident tact of this stroke. He kept clear of all sentiment, apparently realizing that in accepting her money he had put himself beyond her social pale. She was now the liberal patroness, the grande dame, with whose private life he had nothing to do. That was, of course, the right attitude for him to take, yet it irritated her. She broke into personalities again.