Valerie entering with Neville, slender, self-possessed, a hint of inquiry in her level eyes, heard the man at the door announce them, and was conscious of many people turning as they passed into the big reception room.  A woman near her murmured, “What a beauty!” Another added, “How intelligently gowned!” The slim Countess Helene d’Enver, nee Nellie Jackson, held out a perfectly gloved hand and nodded amiably to Neville.  Then, smiling fixedly at Valerie: 

“My dear, how nice of you,” she said.  “And you, too, Louis; it is very amusing of you to come.  Jose Querida has just departed.  He gave us such a delightful five-minute talk on modernity.  Quoting Huneker, he spoke of it as a ’quality’—­and ’that nervous, naked vibration’—­”

She ended with a capricious gesture which might have meant anything ineffable, or an order for a Bronx cocktail.

“What’s a nervous, naked vibration?” demanded Neville, with an impatient shrug.  “It sounds like a massage parlour—­not,” he added with respect, “that Huneker doesn’t know what he’s talking about.  Nobody doubts that.  Only art is one delicious bouillabaisse to him.”

The Countess d’Enver laughed, still retaining Valerie’s hand: 

“Your gown is charming—­may I add that you are disturbingly beautiful, Miss West?  When they have given you some tea, will you find me if I can’t find you?”

“Yes, I will,” said Valerie.

At the tea table Neville brought her a glass of sherry and a bite of something squashy; a number of people spoke to him and asked to be presented to Valerie.  Her poise, her unconsciousness, the winning simplicity of her manner were noticed everywhere, and everywhere commented on.  People betrayed a tendency to form groups around her; women, prepared by her unusual beauty for anything between mediocrity and inanity, were a little perplexed at her intelligence and candour.

To Mrs, Hind-Willet’s question she replied innocently:  “To me there is no modern painter comparable to Mr. Neville, though I dearly love Wilson, Sorella and Querida.”

To Latimer Varyck’s whimsical insistence she finally was obliged to admit that her reasons for not liking Richard Strauss were because she thought him ugly, uninspired, and disreputable, which unexpected truism practically stunned that harmless dilettante and so delighted Neville that he was obliged to disguise his mirth with a scowl directed at the ceiling.

“Did I say anything very dreadful, Kelly?” she whispered, when opportunity offered.

“No, you darling.  I couldn’t keep a civil face when you told the truth about Richard Strauss to that rickety old sensualist.”

[Illustration:  “Her poise, her unconsciousness, the winning simplicity of her manner were noticed everywhere.”]

“I don’t really know enough to criticise anything.  But Mr. Varyck would make me answer; and one must say something.”

Olaf Dennison, without preliminary, sat down at the piano, tossed aside his heavy hair, and gave a five-minute prelude to the second act of his new opera, “Yvonne of Bannalec.”  The opera might as well have been called Mamie of Hoboken, for all the music signified to Neville.