He rose as he spoke and glanced around the room. The salon was brilliant and full of company. His mother, even more elegantly attired than usual, seemed to be regarding with satisfaction the numerous groups of stylish ladies, men of all ages, and notabilities from all lands gathered around her. Nothing justified the wearied look of him who should have aided in doing the honors of the evening, still less the following words:
“What an insupportable crowd! If you have had enough of it, Adelardi, as I have, let us go to my room and smoke a cigar in peace.”
“Agreed on the last point. As to the other, it is your humor for divination that makes you regard things in such a light.—Come,” he continued when they were established, one in an arm-chair and the other on a dormeuse, in the apartment where we once accompanied Fleurange—“come, George, without being a fortune-teller, shall I try to predict the future you are seeking to know?”
George lighted his cigar, and, after smoking a few moments in silence, he said: “You are no fortune-teller, Adelardi, I am aware, but you would not be an Italian without a certain talent for divination. Come, I am willing: try your skill. You know you have long had the right of saying anything to me.”
“Well, to begin—but first allow me to ask why you have kept a curtain over that picture since your return?”
“Do you remember what that painting represents?”
“Certainly, it represents Cordelia at the feet of King Lear, who is asleep.”
“Did you ever examine it carefully?”
“Yes, George, very carefully, so that—here, I can spare you the trouble of answering the question I just asked. I know now why you conceal it.”
“Let us hear.”