estate of her family’s in the neighborhood of Orleans, but she also kept up a small establishment in Paris in a house belonging to her in the Rue de Richelieu and was now passing some weeks there in order to settle her youngest son, who was reading the law and in his “first year.”  In old times she had been a dear friend of the Marquise de Chouard and had assisted at the birth of the countess, who, prior to her marriage, used to stay at her house for months at a time and even now was quite familiarly treated by her.

“I have brought Georges to see you,” said Mme Hugon to Sabine.  “He’s grown, I trust.”

The young man with his clear eyes and the fair curls which suggested a girl dressed up as a boy bowed easily to the countess and reminded her of a bout of battledore and shuttlecock they had had together two years ago at Les Fondettes.

“Philippe is not in Paris?” asked Count Muffat.

“Dear me, no!” replied the old lady.  “He is always in garrison at Bourges.”  She had seated herself and began talking with considerable pride of her eldest son, a great big fellow who, after enlisting in a fit of waywardness, had of late very rapidly attained the rank of lieutenant.  All the ladies behaved to her with respectful sympathy, and conversation was resumed in a tone at once more amiable and more refined.  Fauchery, at sight of that respectable Mme Hugon, that motherly face lit up with such a kindly smile beneath its broad tresses of white hair, thought how foolish he had been to suspect the Countess Sabine even for an instant.

Nevertheless, the big chair with the red silk upholsteries in which the countess sat had attracted his attention.  Its style struck him as crude, not to say fantastically suggestive, in that dim old drawing room.  Certainly it was not the count who had inveigled thither that nest of voluptuous idleness.  One might have described it as an experiment, marking the birth of an appetite and of an enjoyment.  Then he forgot where he was, fell into brown study and in thought even harked back to that vague confidential announcement imparted to him one evening in the dining room of a restaurant.  Impelled by a sort of sensuous curiosity, he had always wanted an introduction into the Muffats’ circle, and now that his friend was in Mexico through all eternity, who could tell what might happen?  “We shall see,” he thought.  It was a folly, doubtless, but the idea kept tormenting him; he felt himself drawn on and his animal nature aroused.  The big chair had a rumpled look—­its nether cushions had been tumbled, a fact which now amused him.

“Well, shall we be off?” asked La Faloise, mentally vowing that once outside he would find out the name of the woman with whom people were going to sup.

“All in good time,” replied Fauchery.