hings. And book
reviews, I suspect. And even, perhaps, leading articles in the
newspapers."

"_Toute la lyre enfin?_ What they call a penny-a-liner?"

"I'm sure I don't know what he's paid. I should think he'd get rather
more than a penny. He's fairly successful. The things he does aren't
bad," she said.

"I must look 'em up," said he. "But meantime, will you tell me how you
came to mistake me for him? Has he the Chinese type? Besides, what on
earth should a little London literary man be doing at the Countess
Wohenhoffen's?"

"He was standing near the door, over there," she told him, sweetly,
"dying for a little human conversation, till I took pity on him. No, he
hasn't exactly the Chinese type, but he's wearing a Chinese costume, and
I should suppose he'd feel uncommonly hot in that exasperatingly placid
Chinese head. _I'm_ nearly suffocated, and I'm only wearing a _loup_.
For the rest, why _shouldn't_ he be here?"

"If your _loup_ bothers you, pray take it off. Don't mind me," he urged
gallantly.

"You're extremely good," she responded. "But if I should take off my
_loup_, you'd be sorry. Of course, manlike, you're hoping that I'm young
and pretty."

"Well, and aren't you?"

"I'm a perfect fright. I'm an old maid."

"Thank you. Manlike, I confess I _was_ hoping you'd be young and pretty.
Now my hope has received the strongest confirmation. I'm sure you are,"
he declared triumphantly.

"Your argument, with a meretricious air of subtlety, is facile and
superficial. Don't pin your faith to it. Why _shouldn't_ Victor Field be
here?" she persisted.

"The Countess only receives tremendous swells. It's the most exclusive
house in Europe."

"Are you a tremendous swell?" she wondered.

"Rather!" he asseverated. "Aren't you?"

She laughed a little, and stroked her fan, a big fan, a big fan of
fluffy black feathers.

"That's very jolly," said he.

"What?" said she.

"That thing in your lap."

"My fan?"

"I expect you'd call it a fan."

"For goodness' sake, what would _you_ call it?" cried she.

"I should call it a fan."

She gave another little laugh. "You have a nice instinct for the _mot
juste_," she informed him.

"Oh, no," he disclaimed, modestly. "But I can call a fan a fan, when I
think it won't shock the sensibilities of my hearer."

"If the Countess only receives tremendous swells," said she, "you must
remember that Victor Field belongs to the Aristocracy of Talent."

"Oh, _quant a ca