he sumptuous table
appointments and the delicacy of the dishes, which were highly seasoned
to an unusual degree, everything disclosed the importance of the
expected guest and the pains that had been taken to please him. There
was no mistaking the fact that it was an artist's establishment. Little
silverware, but superb china, perfect harmony without the slightest
attempt at arrangement. Old Rouen, pink Sevres, Dutch glass mounted in
old finely-wrought pewter met on that table as on a stand of rare
objects collected by a connoisseur simply to gratify his taste. The
result was some slight confusion in the household, dependent as it was
upon the chance of a lucky find. The exquisite oil-cruet had no stopper.
The broken salt-cellar overflowed on the cloth, and every moment it was:
"What has become of the mustard-pot? What has happened to that fork?"
All of which troubled de Gery a little on account of the young mistress
of the house, who, for her part, was not in the least disturbed.

But something that made him even more ill at ease was his anxiety to
know who the privileged guest was whose place he had taken at that
table, whom they could entertain with such magnificence and at the same
time such utter lack of ceremony. In spite of everything he felt as if
that countermanded guest were present, a constant affront to his own
dignity. In vain did he try to forget him; everything reminded him of
him, even to the holiday attire of the kindly Fairy, who sat opposite
him and who still retained some of the grand manners which she had
assumed in anticipation of the solemn occasion. The thought disturbed
him, poisoned his joy in being there.

On the other hand, as is always the case in parties of two, where
harmony of mood is very rare, he had never seen Felicia so affectionate,
in such merry humor. She was in a state of effervescent, almost
childlike gayety, one of those fervent outbursts of emotion which one
experiences when some danger has passed, the reaction of a clear,
blazing fire after the excitement of a shipwreck. She laughed heartily,
teased Paul about his accent and what she called his bourgeois ideas.
"For you are shockingly bourgeois, you know. But that is just what I
like in you. It's on account of the contrast, I have no doubt, because I
was born under a bridge, in a gust of wind, that I have always been fond
of sedate, logical natures."

"Oh! my dear, what do you suppose Monsieur Paul will think, when you say
y