It had a coldness, a self-possession, a motion of its own.  In that clear, transparent, shimmering light, every little fold of the dress, every little shadow of the white arms, the white shoulders, came up to me.  The face turned up to meet mine.  I remember so well the light shining down on the face, not a shadow anywhere, not a shadow beneath the eyebrows, the nostrils, the waves of hair.  It was a vision of light, theatening, sinister.

She smiled, her lips parted.

“You come to me to-morrow,” she said.  Did I hear the words, did her lips merely form them?  She was far, far down below me; the air was alive with the rustling of feet, of garments, of laughter, full of sounds that made themselves heard, full of sounds that would not be caught.

“You come to me ... to-morrow.”

The old lady on the Duc de Mersch’s arm was obviously my aunt.  I did not see why I should not go to them to-morrow.  It struck me suddenly and rather pleasantly that this was, after all, my family.  This old lady actually was a connection more close than anyone else in the world.  As for the girl, to all intents and, in everyone else’s eyes, she was my sister.  I cannot say I disliked having her for my sister, either.  I stood looking down upon them and felt less alone than I had done for many years.

A minute scuffle of the shortest duration was taking place beside me.  There were a couple of men at my elbow.  I don’t in the least know what they were—­perhaps marquises, perhaps railway employees—­one never can tell over there.  One of them was tall and blond, with a heavy, bow-shaped red moustache—­Irish in type; the other of no particular height, excellently groomed, dark, and exemplary.  I knew he was exemplary from some detail of costume that I can’t remember—­his gloves or a strip of silk down the sides of his trousers—­something of the sort.  The blond was saying something that I did not catch.  I heard the words “de Mersch” and “Anglaise,” and saw the dark man turn his attention to the little group below.  Then I caught my own name mispronounced and somewhat of a stumbling-block to a high-pitched contemptuous intonation.  The little correspondent, who was on my other arm, started visibly and moved swiftly behind my back.

“Messieurs,” he said in an urgent whisper, and drew them to a little distance.  I saw him say something, saw them pivot to look at me, shrug their shoulders and walk away.  I didn’t in the least grasp the significance of the scene—­not then.

“What’s the matter?” I asked my returning friend; “were they talking about me?” He answered nervously.

“Oh, it was about your aunt’s Salon, you know.  They might have been going to say something awkward ... one never knows.”

“They really do talk about it then?” I said.  “I’ve a good mind to attend one of their exhibitions.”

“Why, of course,” he said, “you ought.  I really think you ought.”