As Calvert looked at the handsome, dissipated face of the nobleman before him a sudden gust of passion shook him that so insolent a scoundrel should dare to speak to him in such fashion.  And though he retained all his self-control and outward composure, so strange a smile played about his lip and so meaning an expression came into his eye as caused no little surprise to St. Aulaire, who had entirely underestimated the spirit that lay beneath so calm and boyish an exterior.  As he was about to reply to Calvert, Madame de St. Andre approached.  Making a low bow, and without a word, Monsieur de St. Aulaire retired, leaving Calvert with the young girl.

“Come with me, sir,” she said, smiling imperiously on the young man and speaking rapidly.  “I have many questions to ask you!  You are full of surprises, Monsieur, and I must have my curiosity satisfied.  We have many arrears of conversation to make up.  Did you not promise to tell me of General Washington, of America, of your young Scotch poet?  But, first of all, I must have a list of your accomplishments,” and she laughed musically.  Calvert thought it was like seeing the sun break through the clouds on a stormy day to see this sudden change to girlish gayety and naturalness from her grand air of princess royal, and which, after all, he reflected, she had something of a right to assume.  Indeed, she bore the name of one who had been a most distinguished officer of the King and who had died in his service, and she was herself the descendant of a long line of nobles who, if they had not all been benefactors of their race, had, at least, never shirked the brunt of battle nor any service in the royal cause.  On her father’s side she was sprung from that great warrior, Jacques d’Azay, who fought side by side with Lafayette’s ancestor in the battle of Beauge, when the brother of Harry of England was defeated and slain.  On her mother’s side she came of the race of the wise and powerful Duc de Sully, Henry of Navarre’s able minister.  One of her great uncles had been a Grand Almoner of France, and another had commanded one of the victorious battalions at Fontenoy under the Marechal Saxe.  The portraits of some of these great gentlemen and of many another of her illustrious ancestors hung upon the walls of the salons and galleries of this mansion in the rue St. Honore.  The very house bespoke the pride of race and generations of affluence, and was only equalled in magnificence by the Noailles hotel near by.  As Mr. Calvert looked about him at the splendor of this mansion, which had been in the d’Azay family for near two centuries and a half; at the spacious apartment with its shining marquetry floor, its marble columns separating it from the great entrance hall; at the lofty ceiling, decorated by the famous Lagrenee with a scene from Virgil (’twas the meeting of Dido and Aeneas); at the brilliant company gathered together—­as Mr. Calvert looked at all this, he felt a thousand miles removed from her in circumstance and sentiment,