She stood opposite, and, in her white attire on the background of the blue curtain, appeared like an impersonation of Greek genius relieved upon the blue of an Athenian heaven.  Her severe and classic outline, her pallor, her downcast lids, her absorbed look, only heightened the resemblance.  Her reverie seemed to end abruptly, the same red stained her cheek again, her lips curved in a proud smile, she raised her glowing eyes and observed us regarding her.  At too great distance to hear our words, she quietly repaid our glances in the strength of her new decision, and then, turning, began to entertain those next her with an unwonted spirit.

“She has needed,” I replied to the Baron, “but one thing,—­to be aroused, to be kindled.  See, it is done!  I have thought that a life of cabinets and policy might achieve this, for her talent is second not even to her beauty.”

“It is unhappy that both should be wasted,” said the Baron.  “She, of course, will never marry.”

“Why not?”

“For various reasons.”

“One?”

“She is poor.”

“Which will not signify to your Excellency.  Another?”

“She is too beautiful.  One would fall in love with her.  And to love one’s own wife—­it is ridiculous!”

“Who should know?” I asked.

“All the world would suspect and laugh.”

“Let those laugh that win.”

“No,—­she would never do as a wife; but then as”——­

“But then in France we do not insult hospitality!”

The Baron transferred his gaze to me for a moment, then tapped his snuff-box, and approached the circle round Delphine.

It was odd that we, the arch enemies of the hour, could speak without the intervention of seconds; but I hoped that the Baron’s conversation might be diverting,—­the Baron hoped that mine might be didactic.

They were very gay with Delphine.  He leaned on the back of a chair and listened.  One spoke of the new gallery of the Tuileries, and the five pavilions,—­a remark which led us to architecture.

“We all build our own houses,” said Delphine, at last, “and then complain that they cramp us here, and the wind blows in there, while the fault is not in the order, but in us, who increase here and shrink there—­without reason.”

“You speak in metaphors,” said the Baron.

“Precisely.  A truth is often more visible veiled than nude.”

“We should soon exhaust the orders,” I interposed; “for who builds like his neighbor?”

“Slight variations, Monsieur!  Though we take such pains to conceal the style, it is not difficult to tell the order of architecture chosen by the builders in this room.  My mother, for instance,—­you perceive that her pavilion would be the florid Gothic.”

“Mademoiselle’s is the Doric,” I said.

“Has been,” she murmured, with a quick glance.

“And mine, Mademoiselle?” asked the Baron, indifferently.