So Paul Howard Alexis sallied forth to seek the hand of the lady of his choice, and as he left his own door that lady was receiving Claude de Chauxville in her drawing-room.  The two had not met for some weeks—­not indeed since Etta had told the Frenchman that she could not marry him.  Her invitation to dine, couched in the usual friendly words, had been the first move in that game commonly called “bluff.”  Claude de Chauxville’s acceptance of the same had been the second move.  And these two persons, who were not afraid of each other, shook hands with a pleasant smile of greeting, while Paul hurried toward them through the busy streets.

“Am I forgiven—­that I am invited to dinner?” asked De Chauxville imperturbably, when the servant had left them alone.

Etta was one of those women who are conscious of their dress.  Some may protest that a lady moving in such circles would not be so.  But in all circles women are only women, and in every class of life we meet such as Etta Bamborough.  Women who, while they talk, glance down and rearrange a flower or a piece of lace.  It is a mere habit, seemingly small and unimportant; but it marks the woman and sets her apart.

Etta was standing on the hearthrug, beautifully dressed—­too beautifully dressed, it is possible, to sit down.  Her maid had a moment earlier confessed that she could do no more, and Etta had come down stairs a vision of luxury, of womanly loveliness.  Nevertheless, there appeared to be something amiss.  She was so occupied with a flower at her shoulder that she did not answer at once.

“Forgiven for what?” she asked at length, in that preoccupied tone of voice which tells wise men that only questions of dress will be considered.

De Chauxville shrugged his shoulders in his graceful Gallic way.

“Mon Dieu!” he exclaimed.  “For a crime which requires no excuse, and no explanation other than a mirror.”

She looked up at him innocently.

“A mirror?”

“Yours.  Have you forgiven me for falling in love with you?  It is, I am told, a crime that women sometimes condone.”

“It was no crime,” she said.  She had heard the wheels of Paul’s carriage.  “It was a misfortune.  Please let us forget that it ever happened.”

De Chauxville twirled his neat mustache, looking keenly at her the while.

“You forget,” he said.  “But I—­will remember.”

She did not answer, but turned with a smile to greet Paul.

“I think you know each other,” she said gracefully when she had shaken hands, and the two men bowed.  They were foreigners, be it understood.  There were three languages in which they could understand each other with equal ease.

“Where is Maggie?” exclaimed Mrs. Bamborough.  “She is always late.”

“When I am here,” reflected De Chauxville.  But he did not say it.

Miss Delafield kept them waiting a few minutes, and during that time Etta Sydney Bamborough gave a very fine display of prowess with the double-stringed bow.  When a man attempts to handle this delicate weapon, he usually makes, if one may put it thus crudely, an ass of himself.  He generally succeeds in snapping one and probably both of the strings, injuring himself most certainly in the process.