The next morning you are besieged, at your club, for news about Aspasia’s reception.  She did the honours en souveraine; but it is really a pity she will not be less attentive to the champagne.  Everything would have gone off splendidly if that little diablesse Titi had not revived her feud with Fanchette.  You are not surprised to hear that Aspasia’s goods were seized this morning.  The duke must have had more than enough of it by this time, and has, of course, discovered that he has been the laughing-stock of his friends for a long time past.  Over the absinthe tripping commentary Aspasia sinks from the Chasusee d’Antin to the porter’s lodge.  A little creve taps his teeth with the end of his cane, blinks his tired, wicked eyes, like a monkey in the sun, through his pince-nez, and opines, with a sharp relish, that Aspasia is destined to sweep her five stories—­well.

Pah!  What kind of discourse is all this for born and bred gentlemen to hold in these days, when the portals of noble knowledge lie wide open, and every man may grace his humanity with some special wisdom of his own!

Bertram, a ribbon in his buttonhole, and arrayed to justify his fame as one of the best-dressed men in Paris, came in haste for me.

“We are late, my dear Q.M.  This is not carnival time, remember.  We jump early.”

The rooms were—­but I cannot be at the pains of describing them.  The reader knows what Sevres and Aubusson, St. Gobain, Barbedienne, Fourdinois, Jeanseline, Tahan, and the rest, can do for a first floor within a stone’s throw of the Boulevard des Italiens.  The fashion in all its most striking aspects is here.  The presents lie thick as autumn leaves.  The bonne says you might fill a portmanteau with madame’s fans.  Bertram is recognised by a dozen ladies at once.  The lady of the house receives me with the lowest curtsey.  No ambassadress could be more gracieuse.  The toilettes are amazing.  It is early, after all Bertram’s impatience.  The state is that of a duchesse for the present.  Bertram leaves me and is lost in the crowd.  The conversation is measured and orderly.  The dancing begins, and I figure in the quadrille of honour.  I am giving my partner—­a dark-eyed, vivacious lady—­an ice, when I am tapped upon the shoulder by Cosmo Bertram.  Bertram has a lady on his arm.  He turns to her, saying—­

“Permit me to present my friend to you, Madame Trefoil——­”

“What!  Mrs. Daker!” I cried.

Mrs. Daker’s still sweet eyes fell upon me; and she shook my hand; and by her commanding calmness smothered my astonishment, so that the bystanders should not see it.

Later in the evening she said—­passing me in the crowd—­“Come and see me.”

I did not—­I could not—­next morning, tell Lucy nor Mrs. Rowe.

CHAPTER XIII.

AT BOULOGNE-SUR-MER.