enry.

"This is the first time for twenty years that I have not found her on a
Wednesday evening," he said, with a sudden touch of feeling which became
him. "At our age, the smallest break in the old habit--"

He sighed, and then quickly threw off his depression.

"Nonsense! Next week she will be scolding us all with double energy.
Meanwhile, may we sit down, mademoiselle? Ten minutes? And, upon my
word, the very thing my soul was longing for--a cup of coffee!"

For at the moment Hutton and two footmen entered with trays containing
tea and coffee, lemonade and cakes.

"Shut the door, Hutton, _please_," Mademoiselle Le Breton implored, and
the door was shut at once.

"We mustn't, _mustn't_ make any noise!" she said, her finger on her
lip, looking first at Montresor and then at Delafield. The group
laughed, moved their spoons softly, and once more lowered their voices.

But the coffee brought a spirit of festivity. Chairs were drawn up. The
blazing fire shone out upon a semicircle of people representing just
those elements of mingled intimacy and novelty which go to make
conversation. And in five minutes Mademoiselle Le Breton was leading it
as usual. A brilliant French book had recently appeared dealing with
certain points of the Egyptian question in a manner so interesting,
supple, and apparently impartial that the attention of Europe had been
won. Its author had been formerly a prominent official of the French
Foreign Office, and was now somewhat out of favor with his countrymen.
Julie put some questions about him to M. du Bartas.

The Frenchman feeling himself among comrades worthy of his steel, and
secretly pricked by the presence of an English cabinet minister,
relinquished the half-disdainful reserve with which he had entered, and
took pains. He drew the man in question, _en silhouette_, with a hostile
touch so sure, an irony so light, that his success was instant
and great.

Lord Lackington woke up. Handsome, white-haired dreamer that he was, he
had been looking into the fire, half--smiling, more occupied, in truth,
with his own thoughts than with his companions. Delafield had brought
him in; he did not exactly know why he was there, except that he liked
Mademoiselle Le Breton, and often wondered how the deuce Lady Henry had
ever discovered such an interesting and delightful person to fill such
an uncomfortable position. But this Frenchman challenged and excited
him. He, too, began to talk French, and so