On entering her dining-room Eugenie took the arm of Lenaieff, placed Henri de Prerolles on her left and Samoreau opposite her—­in his character of senior member, so that no one could mistake his transitory function with that of an accredited master of the house.

The four other guests were distinguished writers or artists, including the painter Edmond Delorme, and, like him, all were intimate friends of the mistress of the house.

Naturally the conversation turned upon the representation of Adrienne, and on the applause of the fashionable audience, usually rather undemonstrative.

“Never have I received so many flowers as were given to me last night,” said Eugenic, displaying an enormous beribboned basket which ornamented the table.  “But that which particularly flattered me,” she added, “was the spontaneous tribute from that pretty foreigner who sought me in the greenroom expressly to offer me her bouquet.”

“The young lady in the proscenium box, I will wager,” said Lenaieff.

“Precisely.  I know that they call her Zibeline, but I did not catch her real name.”

“It is Mademoiselle de Vermont,” said Edmond Delorme.  “She is, in my opinion, the most dashing of all the Amazons in the Bois de Boulogne.  The Chevalier de Sainte-Foy brought her to visit my studio last autumn, and I am making a life-size portrait of her on her famous horse, Seaman, the winner of the great steeplechase at Liverpool, in 1882.”

“What were you pencilling on the back of your menu while you were talking?” asked the actress, curiously.

“The profile of General de Prerolles,” the painter replied.  “I think that his mare Aida would make a capital companion picture for Seaman, and that he himself would be an appropriate figure to adorn a canvas hung on the line opposite her at the next Salon!”

“Pardon me, dear master!” interrupted the General.  “Spare me, I pray, the honor of figuring in this equestrian contradance.  I have not the means to bequeath to posterity that your fair model possesses—­”

“Is she, then, as rich as they say?” inquired one of the guests.

“I can answer for that,” said the Baron de Samoreau.  “She has a letter of credit upon me from my correspondent in New York.  Last night, during an entr’acte, she gave me an order to hold a million francs at her disposal before the end of the week.”

“I know the reason why,” added Henri.

“But,” Lenaieff exclaimed, “you told me that you did not know her!”

“I have made her acquaintance since then.”

“Ah!  Where?” Eugenie inquired, with interest.

“At my sister’s house, during the meeting of a charitable society.”

“Had it anything to do with the society for which Monsieur Desvanneaux asked me to appear in a kermess?”

“Well, yes.  In fact, he has gone so far as to announce that he is assured of your cooperation.”

“I could not refuse him,” said Eugenie.  “Under the mantle of charity, the holy man paid court to me!”