“Ah, Miss Quintard’s mother would not deny it either,” commented Mr. Mayfair with his polite imperturbability.  His sharp eyes glinted with satisfaction.  Young Mr. Mayfair admired himself as being something of the human dynamo.  Also it was his private opinion that he was of the order of the super-reporter; nothing ever “got by him.”  “And so,” he went on without a pause, “since the engagement is not denied, I suppose we may take it as a fact.  And now”—­again with his swift change of base—­“may I ask, as a parting word before you sail, whether it is your intention next season to contest with Mrs. Allistair—­”

“I have nothing whatever to say!”

“Quite naturally you’d prefer not to say anything,” appeasingly continued the high-geared Mr. Mayfair, “but of course you are going to fight her.”  Again his sharp, unfoilable eyes glinted. “’Duel for social leadership’—­pardon me for speaking of it as such, but that’s what it is; and most interesting, I assure you; and I, for one, trust that you will retain your supremacy, for I know—­I know,” he repeated with emphasis—­“that Mrs. Allistair has used some methods not altogether—­sportsmanlike, may I say?  And now”—­rapidly shifting once more—­“I trust I will not seem indelicate if I inquire whether it is in the scope of your present plans, perhaps at house-parties at the estates of titled friends, to meet the Duke de—­”

“I have nothing whatever to say!” gasped Mrs. De Peyster, glaring with consuming fury.

“Naturally.  We could hardly expect a categorical ‘yes’ or ‘no.’  We understand that your position requires you to be non-committal; and you, of course, understand that we newspaper men interpret a refusal to speak as an answer in the affirmative.  Thank you very much for the interview you have given us.  And I can assure you that we shall all handle the story with the utmost good taste.  Good afternoon.”

He bowed.  And the next moment the place where he had stood was vacant.

“Of—­of all the effrontery!” exploded Mrs. De Peyster.

“Isn’t it terrible!” shudderingly gasped the sympathetic Olivetta.  “I hope they won’t really drag in that horrible Duke de Crecy!”

Mrs. De Peyster shuddered, too.  The episode of the Duke de Crecy was still salt in an unhealed social wound.  The Duke had been New York’s most distinguished titled visitor the previous winter; Mrs. De Peyster, to the general envy, had led in his entertainment; there had been whispers of another international marriage.  And then, after respectful adieus, the Duke had sailed away—­and within a month the papers were giving columns to his scandalous escapades with a sensational Spanish dancer of parsimonious drapery.  Whereupon the rumors of Mrs. De Peyster’s previously gossiped-of marriage with the now notorious Duke were revived—­by the subtle instigation, and as an act of social warfare, so Mrs. De Peyster believed, of her aspiring rival, Mrs. Allistair.  And there was one faint rumor, still daringly breathed around, that the Duke had proposed—­had been accepted—­had run away:  in blunt terms, had jilted Mrs. De Peyster.