Not so, however, this clever lady.  She had a smile and an epigram for Claude de Chauxville, a grave air of sympathetic interest in more serious affairs for Paul Alexis.  She was bright and amusing, guileless and very worldly wise in the same breath—­simple for Paul and a match for De Chauxville, within the space of three seconds.  Withal she was a beautiful woman beautifully dressed.  A thousand times too wise to scorn her womanhood, as learned fools are prone to do in print and on platform in these wordy days, but wielding the strongest power on earth, to wit, that same womanhood, with daring and with skill.  A learned woman is not of much account in the world.  A clever woman moves as much of it as lies in her neighborhood—­that is to say, as much as she cares to rule.  For women love power, but they do not care to wield it at a distance.

Paul was asked to take Mrs. Sydney Bamborough down to dinner by the lady herself.

“Mon ami,” she said in a quiet aside to De Chauxville, before making her request, “it is the first time the prince dines here.”

She spoke in French.  Maggie and Paul were talking together at the other end of the room.  De Chauxville bowed in silence.

At dinner the conversation was necessarily general, and, as such, is not worth reporting.  No general conversation, one finds, is of much value when set down in black and white.  It is not even grammatical nowadays.  To be more correct, let us note that the talk lay between Etta and M. de Chauxville, who had a famous supply of epigrams and bright nothings delivered in such a way that they really sounded like wisdom.  Etta was equal to him, sometimes capping his sharp wit, sometimes contenting herself with silvery laughter.  Maggie Delafield was rather distraite, as De Chauxville noted.  The girl’s dislike for him was an iron that entered the quick of his vanity anew every time he saw her.  There was no petulance in the aversion, such as he had perceived with other maidens who were only resenting a passing negligence or seeking to pique his curiosity.  This was a steady and, if you will, unmaidenly aversion, which Maggie conscientiously attempted to conceal.

Paul, it is to be feared, was what hostesses call heavy in hand.  He laughed where he saw something to laugh at, but not elsewhere, which in some circles is considered morose and in bad form.  He joined readily enough in the conversation, but originated nothing.  Those topics which occupied his mind did not present themselves as suitable to this occasion.  His devotion to Etta was quite obvious, and he was simple enough not to care that it should be so.

Maggie was by turns quite silent and very talkative.  When Paul and Etta were speaking together she never looked at them, but fixedly at her own plate, at a decanter, or a salt-cellar.  When she spoke she addressed her remarks—­valueless enough in themselves—­exclusively to the man she disliked, Claude de Chauxville.