An enjoyable thing to see Mrs. Lessingham in conversation with one of her French guests.  She threw off full fifteen years, and looked thirty at most.  Her handsome features had a vivid play of expression in harmony with the language she was speaking; her eyes were radiant as she phrased a thought which in English would have required many words for the—­blunting of its point.  M. Silvenoire, who—­with the slight disadvantage of knowing no tongue but his own—­was making a study of English social life, found himself at ease this evening for the first time since he had been in London.  Encouraged to talk his best, he frankly and amusingly told Mrs. Lessingham of the ideas he had formed regarding conversation in the drawing-rooms of English ladies.

“Civilization is spreading among us,” she replied, with a laugh.  “Once or twice it has been my privilege to introduce young Frenchmen, who were studying our language, to English families abroad, and in those cases I privately recommended to them a careful study of Anthony Trollope’s novels, that they might learn what is permissible in conversation and what is not.  But here and there in London you will find it possible to discuss things that interest reasonable beings.”

At the door sounded the name of “Mr. Biekerdike,” and there advanced towards the hostess a tall, ugly young man, known by repute to all the English people present.  He was the author of a novel called “A Crown of Lilies,” which was much talked of just now, and excited no less ridicule than admiration, On the one hand, it was lauded for delicate purity and idealism; on the other, it was scoffed at for artificiality and affected refinement.  Mrs. Lessingham had met him for the first time a week ago.  Her invitation was not due to approval of his book, but to personal interest which the author moved in her; she was curious to discover how far the idealism of “A Crown of Lilies” was a genuine fruit of the man’s nature.  Mr. Bickerdike’s countenance did not promise clarity of soul; his features were distinctly coarse, and the glance he threw round the room on entering made large demands.

Irene Delph was talking with a young married lady named Mrs. Travis; they both regarded Mr. Bickerdike with close scrutiny.

“Who could have imagined such an author for the book!” murmured the girl, in wonder.

“I could perfectly well,” murmured back Mrs. Travis, with a smile which revealed knowledge of humanity.

“I pictured a very youthful man, with a face of effeminate beauty—­ probably a hectic colour in his cheeks.”

“Such men don’t write ‘the novel of the season.’  This gentleman is very shrewd; he gauges the public.  Some day, if he sees fit, he will write a brutal book, and it will have merit.”

Mr. Bickerdike unfortunately did not speak French, so M. Silvenoire was unable to exchange ideas with him.  The Parisian, having learnt what this gentleman’s claims were, regarded him through his pince-nez with a subtle smile.  But in a few moments he had something more interesting to observe.