brance of Lukos kept him from
showing something more of his real feelings--the remembrance of Lukos
and the aloof friendliness of Beatrice herself. There was but one fly in
the amber of that perfect week, and that was the attitude of Mizzi.

Since the morning after his arrival Mizzi had waited on him with an air
of courteous disapproval. She had been as polite as ever, as demure and
piquant as could be wished, but she had been less communicative, less
_sympathique_ with the stranger. Even in the presence of her mistress
there was a suggestion of frigidity that was galling to a sensitive man.
Lionel grudgingly admitted that perhaps he had been a little to blame,
but, illogically enough, he resented the atmosphere of respectful
condemnation. More than once he had tried to dissipate the unhappy
misunderstanding, to restore things to a more friendly--but not too
friendly--footing. In this he had not been successful. To his cheerful
and carefully composed commonplaces Mizzi made the briefest of answers,
and on one occasion there had been a distinct toss of the head and an
unmistakable sniff. "Women are so unreasonable," he said to himself
complainingly, after a sustained effort that fell flat; then with a pang
of compunction, "Some women, I mean. I do wish Mizzi would be
sensible.... It is very trying."

Matters came to a head after he had been Miss Blair's guest for nearly a
week. It was a Saturday, and his hostess went to the theater directly
after lunch to get ready for the matinee. Lionel, provided with one of
her cards, was to follow her and see the play, for as yet he had not
watched her on the stage. The experience proved delightful, for the play
was good and her acting excellent. After it was over he went back to the
flat alone, for she meant to rest in her dressing-room until the evening
performance.

Mizzi opened the door to Lionel, and when he asked her to bring tea she
said, "Immediately, m'sieur," in the most correct of tones. Disapproval
still hung heavily about her, mixed, as it seemed, with something of
compassion. Her attitude was almost that of a perfect mother to a
well-meaning but erring child. "Hang it!" thought Lionel, as he waited
in the sitting-room, "she has no business to behave like this. I have a
good mind ... a jolly good mind to..." He fell into a reverie and
gloomily whistled the opening bars of Chopin's _Marche Funebre_.

Presently the maid brought in tea. She set the tray on a little table