He explained how small forces, when united, can lift great burdens; and then he entered upon the topic of the day—­the magnificent collections made by the press for the sufferers by the floods in Spain, and for the poor of Paris.  Concerning this he had much to relate, and every moment he said ‘we,’ alluding to the press.  He talked himself quite warm about ‘these millions, that we, with such great self-sacrifice, have raised.’

But each of the others had his own story to tell.  Numberless little touches of nobility—­all savouring of self-denial—­came to light from amidst these days of luxury and pleasure.

Mademoiselle Louison’s best friend—­an insignificant little lady who sat at the foot of the table—­told, in spite, of Louison’s protest, how the latter had taken three poor seamstresses up to her own rooms, and had them sew the whole of the night before the fete in the hippodrome.  She had given the poor girls coffee and food, besides payment.

Mademoiselle Louison suddenly became an important personage at table, and the journalist began to show her marked attention.

The many pretty instances of philanthropy, and Louison’s swimming eyes, put the whole company into a quiet, tranquil, benevolent frame of mind, eminently in keeping with the weariness induced by the exertions of the feast.  And this comfortable feeling rose yet a few degrees higher after the guests were settled in soft easy-chairs in the cool drawing-room.

There was no other light than the fire in the grate.  Its red glimmer crept over the English carpet and up the gold borders in the tapestry; it shone upon a gilt picture-frame, on the piano that stood opposite, and, here and there, on a face further away in the gloom.  Nothing else was visible except the red ends of cigars and cigarettes.

The conversation died away.  The silence was broken only by an occasional whisper or the sound of a coffee-cup being put aside; each seemed disposed to enjoy, undisturbed, his genial mood and the quiet gladness of digestion.  Even Monsieur Anatole forgot his truffles, as he reclined in a low chair close to the sofa, on which Mademoiselle Adele had taken her seat.

‘Is there no one who will give us a little music?’ asked Senhor de Silvis from his chair.  ‘You are always so kind, Mademoiselle Adele.’

‘Oh no, no!’ cried Mademoiselle; ‘I am too tired.’

But the foreigner—­the Irishman—­rose from his corner and walked towards the instrument.

‘Ah, you will play for us!  A thousand thanks, Monsieur—.’  Senhor de Silvis had forgotten the name—­a thing that often happened to him with his guests.

‘He is a musician,’ said Mademoiselle Adele to her friend.  Anatole grunted admiringly.

Indeed, all were similarly impressed by the mere way in which he sat down and, without any preparation, struck a few chords here and there, as if to wake the instrument.