“Oh, you needn’t be afraid of my brother,” she said suddenly.  “He is quite harmless.  He is even going to give up writing for the papers except when we want him.”

The Duc turned from me to her, smiled and bowed.  His smile was inane, but he bowed very well; he had been groomed into that sort of thing or had it in the blood.

“We work together still?” he asked.

“Why not?” she answered.

A hubbub of angry voices raised itself behind my back.  It was one of the contretemps that made the Salon Grangeur famous throughout the city.

“You forced yourself upon me.  Did I say anywhere that you were responsible?  If it resembles your particular hell upon earth, what is that to me?  You do worse things; you, yourself, monsieur.  Haven’t I seen ... haven’t I seen it?”

The Duc de Mersch looked swiftly over his shoulder toward the window.

“They seem to be angry there,” he said nervously.  “Had not something better be done, Miss Granger?”

Miss Granger followed the direction of his eyes.

“Why,” she said, “we’re used to these differences of opinion.  Besides, it’s only Monsieur Radet; he’s forever at war with someone or other.”

“He ought to be shown the door,” the Duc grumbled.

“Oh, as for that,” she answered, “we couldn’t.  My aunt would be desolated by such a necessity.  He is very influential in certain quarters.  My aunt wants to catch him for the—­He’s going to write an article.”

“He writes too many articles,” the Duc said, with heavy displeasure.

“Oh, he has written one too many,” she answered, “but that can be traversed....”

“But no one believes,” the Duc objected ...  Radet’s voice intermittently broke in upon his sotto-voce, coming to our ears in gusts.

“Haven’t I seen you ... and then ... and you offer me the cross ... to bribe me to silence ... me....”

In the general turning of faces toward the window in which stood Radet and the other, mine turned too.  Radet was a cadaverous, weatherworn, passion-worn individual, badger-grey, and worked up into a grotesquely attitudinised fury of injured self-esteem.  The other was a denationalised, shifty-eyed, sallow, grey-bearded governor of one of the provinces of the Systeme Groenlandais; had a closely barbered head, a bull neck, and a great belly.  He cast furtive glances round him, uncertain whether to escape or to wait for his say.  He looked at the ring that encircled the window at a little distance, and his face, which had betrayed a half-apparent shame, hardened at sight of the cynical masks of the cosmopolitan conspirators.  They were amused by the scene.  The Holsteiner gained confidence, shrugged his shoulders.

“You have had the fever very badly since you came back,” he said, showing a level row of white teeth.  “You did not talk like that out there.”

“No—­pas si bete—­you would have hanged me, perhaps, as you did that poor devil of a Swiss.  What was his name?  Now you offer me the cross.  Because I had the fever, hein?”