“Pardon—a moment. I go to speak to a lady.” And in a second he was at their table.
Connie gave him both hands without speaking, and he bent over them with a smile that was a mere widening of those protruding lips.
“Connie! As beautiful as ever! My dear lady, the sight of you takes ten—fifteen years from my age. I feel young again, and happy. You come to my concert next week, eh? I play for you.”
“Same old stuff!” thought Noel.
Connie released her hands, and when she spoke her voice was breathless and unnatural, as if she had been running.
“I … I didn’t know you were here.… I hadn’t seen any notices. I thought you were still in America. This is a great surprise to me, Illiodor.” Then, turning to Noel, “I want you to meet Monsieur Petrovitch, Noel. My nephew …”
Noel, standing behind his chair and feeling younger and more intolerant than he had ever felt in his life, inclined his head.
“Eh? Your nephew? Charmed.” The great man bowed, impressively. “Are you too a lover of music?” He bent his frowning gaze upon the young man. “But no, you are English. So, you will say, is the adorable aunt. But she is different. She is of the world, eh? She loves beauty, art, genius.” He moved his large hands. “Ah, Connie, you and I had much in common. They told me you had married again. Is it true?”
“I married Count Chiozzi, four years ago,” she told him. “My husband is in the south of France.”
“Always the good cosmopolitan!” he approved. Then turning once more to Noel: