meant anything
ineffable, or an order for a Bronx cocktail.

"What's a nervous, naked vibration?" demanded Neville, with an impatient
shrug. "It sounds like a massage parlour--not," he added with respect,
"that Huneker doesn't know what he's talking about. Nobody doubts that.
Only art is one delicious bouillabaisse to him."

The Countess d'Enver laughed, still retaining Valerie's hand:

"Your gown is charming--may I add that you are disturbingly beautiful,
Miss West? When they have given you some tea, will you find me if I
can't find you?"

"Yes, I will," said Valerie.

At the tea table Neville brought her a glass of sherry and a bite of
something squashy; a number of people spoke to him and asked to be
presented to Valerie. Her poise, her unconsciousness, the winning
simplicity of her manner were noticed everywhere, and everywhere
commented on. People betrayed a tendency to form groups around her;
women, prepared by her unusual beauty for anything between mediocrity
and inanity, were a little perplexed at her intelligence and candour.

To Mrs, Hind-Willet's question she replied innocently: "To me there is
no modern painter comparable to Mr. Neville, though I dearly love
Wilson, Sorella and Querida."

To Latimer Varyck's whimsical insistence she finally was obliged to
admit that her reasons for not liking Richard Strauss were because she
thought him ugly, uninspired, and disreputable, which unexpected truism
practically stunned that harmless dilettante and so delighted Neville
that he was obliged to disguise his mirth with a scowl directed at the
ceiling.

"Did I say anything very dreadful, Kelly?" she whispered, when
opportunity offered.

"No, you darling. I couldn't keep a civil face when you told the truth
about Richard Strauss to that rickety old sensualist."

[Illustration: "Her poise, her unconsciousness, the winning simplicity
of her manner were noticed everywhere."]

"I don't really know enough to criticise anything. But Mr. Varyck
_would_ make me answer; and one must say something."

Olaf Dennison, without preliminary, sat down at the piano, tossed aside
his heavy hair, and gave a five-minute prelude to the second act of his
new opera, "Yvonne of Bannalec." The opera might as well have been
called Mamie of Hoboken, for all the music signified to Neville.

Mrs. Hind-Willet, leaning over the chair where Valerie was seated,
whispered fervently:

"Isn't it graphic! The music describes an old Breto