play, play, play! And
you--you Americans, you refuse to endure us if we do not let you play.
So for my frien's when they come to my house--if they wish it, there
is that foolish little table. I fear"--she concluded with a bewitching
affectation of sadness--"they prefer that to talkin' wiz me."

"You know that couldn't be so, _Comtesse_," he said. "I would rather
talk to you than--than--"

"Ah, yes, you say so, Monsieur!" She looked at him gravely; a little
sigh seemed to breathe upon her lips; she leaned forward nearer the
fire, her face wistful in the thin, rosy light, and it seemed to him he
had never seen anything so beautiful in his life.

He came across to her and sat upon a stool at her feet. "On my soul," he
began huskily, "I swear--"

She laid her finger on her lips, shaking her head gently; and he was
silent, while the intelligent maid--at that moment entering--arranged a
tea-table and departed.

"American an' Russian, they are the worse," said the Countess
thoughtfully, as she served him with a generous cup, laced with rum,
"but the American he is the bes' to play _wiz_." Mellin found her
irresistible when she said "wiz."

"Why is that?"

"Oh, the Russian play high, yes--but the American"--she laughed
delightedly and stretched her arms wide--"he make' it all a joke! He is
beeg like his beeg country. If he win or lose, he don' care! Ah, I mus'
tell you of my great American frien', that Honor-able Chanlair Pedlow,
who is comin' to Rome. You have heard of Honor-able Chanlair Pedlow in
America?"

"I remember hearing that name."

"Ah, I shall make you know him. He is a man of distinction; he did sit
in your Chamber of Deputies--what you call it?--yes, your Con-gress. He
is funny, eccentric--always he roar like a lion--Boum!--but so simple,
so good, a man of such fine heart--so lovable!"

"I'll be glad to meet him," said Mellin coldly.

"An', oh, yes, I almos' forget to tell you," she went on, "your frien',
that dear Cooley, he is on his way from Monte Carlo in his automobile. I
have a note from him to-day."

"Good sort of fellow, little Cooley, in his way," remarked her companion
graciously. "Not especially intellectual or that, you know. His father
was a manufacturer chap, I believe, or something of the sort. I suppose
you saw a lot of him in Paris?"

"Eh, I thought he is dead!" cried Madame de Vaurigard.

"The father is. I mean, little Cooley."

"Oh, yes," she laughed softly. "We had some gay