“Mrs. Elgar,” cried the voice at the door.

Cecily was met half-way by her aunt, “You are alone?”

“Reuben has a headache.  Perhaps he will come to fetch me, but more likely not.”

All the eyes in the room had one direction.  Alike those who ingenuously admired and those who wished to seem indifferent paid the homage of observation to Mrs. Elgar, as she stood exchanging greetings with the friends who came forward.  Yes, there was something more than attractive features and a pleasant facility of speech.  In Cecily were blended a fresh loveliness and a grace as of maidenhood with the perfect charm of wedded youth.  The air about her was charged with something finer than the delicate fragrance which caressed the senses.  One had but to hear her speak, were it only the most ordinary phrase of courtesy, and that wonderful voice more than justified profound interest.  Strangers took her for a few years older than she was, not judging so much by her face as the finished ease of her manners; when she conversed, it was hard to think of her as only one-and-twenty.

“She is a little pale this evening,” said Irene to Mrs. Travis.

The other assented; then asked: 

“Why don’t you paint her portrait?”

“Heaven forbid!  I have quite enough discouragement in my attempts at painting, as it is.”

M. Silvenoire was bowing low, as Mrs. Lessingham presented him.  To his delight, he heard his own language fluently, idiomatically spoken; he remarked, too, that Mrs. Elgar had a distinct pleasure in speaking it.  She seated herself, and flattered him into ecstasies by the respect with which she received his every word.  She had seen it mentioned in the Figaro that a new play of his was in preparation; when was it likely to be put on the stage?  The theatre in London—­ of course, he understood that no one took it au serieux?

The Parisian could do nothing but gaze about the room, following her movements, when their dialogue was at an end.  Mon Dieu!  And who, then, was Mr. Elgar?  Might not one hope for an invitation to madame’s assemblies?  A wonderful people, these English, after all.

Mr. Bickerdike secured, after much impatience, the desired introduction.  For reasons of his own, he made no mention of his earlier acquaintance with Elgar.  Did she know of it?  In any case she appeared not to, but spoke of things which did not interest Mr. Bickerdike in the least.  At length he was driven to bring forward the one subject on which he desired her views.

“Have you, by chance, read my book, Mrs. Elgar?”

M. Silvenoire would have understood her smile; the Englishman thought it merely amiable, and prepared for the accustomed compliment.

“Yes, I have read it, Mr. Bickerdike.  It seemed to me a charmingly written romance.”

The novelist, seated upon too low a chair, leaning forward so that his knees and chin almost touched, was not in himself a very graceful object; the contrast with his neighbour made him worse than grotesque.  His visage was disagree ably animal as it smiled with condescension.