Orcio is sometimes called in from the nursery; and in he comes—a little fair-haired boy in black velvet, with a superb collar of yellowish lace. The ladies talk to him in French, in order to praise his accent.
To-day the following conversation took place:
“Qui aimes-tu davantage, Georges,—papa ou maman?” was the question put to him by Madame Wildenhoff, who, her hand in a white glove of Danish leather, was stroking the boy’s curls with a blandishing smile.
“C’est papa,” was Orcio’s reply.
“Et pourquoi donc?”
“Parce que maman ne rit jamais.”
Whereupon everybody set hurriedly to expatiate upon the accomplishments of Orcio,—who is not yet four! This they did, wishing to hide a certain confusion felt: that enfant terrible had so unconsciously touched on a matter that every one knew, but no one talked about.
Madame Wildenhoff, who no doubt expected the boy’s answer, and had perhaps elicited it purposely, was the only person to underline its meaning; she let her long eye-lashes droop over her rosy cheeks, pretending to be shocked at the unseemly associations that it had by her means called up.
Martha laughed in merry contradiction of what Orcio had just said; then, kissing his fair brow, she told him to make a nice bow to the company and go back to the nursery with the maid.
Society is irksome to Martha now. We two often went together formerly to the theatre or to a concert: at present she cares no more to go.