was eating
little dry cakes, one after the other, with a small nibbling sound
suggestive of a mouse, while the chief clerk, his nose in a teacup,
seemed never to be going to finish its contents. As to the countess, she
went in a leisurely way from one guest to another, never pressing them,
indeed, only pausing a second or two before the gentlemen whom she
viewed with an air of dumb interrogation before she smiled and passed
on. The great fire had flushed all her face, and she looked as if she
were the sister of her daughter, who appeared so withered and ungainly
at her side. When she drew near Fauchery, who was chatting with her
husband and Vandeuvres, she noticed that they grew suddenly silent;
accordingly she did not stop but handed the cup of tea she was offering
to Georges Hugon beyond them.

"It's a lady who desires your company at supper," the journalist gaily
continued, addressing Count Muffat.

The last-named, whose face had worn its gray look all the evening,
seemed very much surprised. What lady was it?

"Oh, Nana!" said Vandeuvres, by way of forcing the invitation.

The count became more grave than before. His eyelids trembled just
perceptibly, while a look of discomfort, such as headache produces,
hovered for a moment athwart his forehead.

"But I'm not acquainted with that lady," he murmured.

"Come, come, you went to her house," remarked Vandeuvres.

"What d'you say? I went to her house? Oh yes, the other day, in behalf
of the Benevolent Organization. I had forgotten about it. But, no
matter, I am not acquainted with her, and I cannot accept."

He had adopted an icy expression in order to make them understand
that this jest did not appear to him to be in good taste. A man of his
position did not sit down at tables of such women as that. Vandeuvres
protested: it was to be a supper party of dramatic and artistic people,
and talent excused everything. But without listening further to the
arguments urged by Fauchery, who spoke of a dinner where the Prince of
Scots, the son of a queen, had sat down beside an ex-music-hall singer,
the count only emphasized his refusal. In so doing, he allowed himself,
despite his great politeness, to be guilty of an irritated gesture.

Georges and La Faloise, standing in front of each other drinking their
tea, had overheard the two or three phrases exchanged in their immediate
neighborhood.

"Jove, it's at Nana's then," murmured La Faloise. "I might have expected
as