“And so you’ve got to find him for me, and tell him.”

“Tell him what?”

“That he must come to the wedding—­that we must show ourselves together at church and at the breakfast.”

She delivered the behest in her sharp imperative key, the tone of the born commander.  But for once Garnett ventured to question her orders.

“And supposing he won’t come?”

“He must if he cares for his daughter’s happiness.  She can’t be married without him.”

“Can’t be married?”

“The French are like that—­especially the old families.  I was given to understand at once that my husband must appear—­if only to establish the fact that we’re not divorced.”

“Ah—­you’re not, then?” escaped from Garnett.

“Mercy, no!  Divorce is stupid.  They don’t like it in Europe.  And in this case it would have been the end of Hermy’s marriage.  They wouldn’t think of letting their son marry the child of divorced parents.”

“How fortunate, then—­”

“Yes; but I always think of such things beforehand.  And of course I’ve told them that my husband will be present.”

“You think he will consent?”

“No; not at first; but you must make him.  You must tell him how sweet Hermione is—­and you must see Louis, and be able to describe their happiness.  You must dine here to-night—­he is coming.  We’re all dining with the Hubbards, and they expect you.  They have given Hermy some very good diamonds—­though I should have preferred a cheque, as she’ll be horribly poor.  But I think Kate Hubbard means to do something about the trousseau—­Hermy is at Paquin’s with her now.  You’ve no idea how delightful all our friends have been.—­Ah, here is one of them now,” she broke off smiling, as the door opened to admit, without preliminary announcement, a gentleman so glossy and ancient, with such a fixed unnatural freshness of smile and eye, that he gave Garnett the effect of having been embalmed and then enamelled.  It needed not the exotic-looking ribbon in the visitor’s button-hole, nor Mrs. Newell’s introduction of him as her friend Baron Schenkelderff, to assure Garnett of his connection with a race as ancient as his appearance.

Baron Schenkelderff greeted his hostess with paternal playfulness, and the young man with an ease which might have been acquired on the Stock Exchange and in the dressing-rooms of “leading ladies.”  He spoke a faultless, colourless English, from which one felt he might pass with equal mastery to half a dozen other languages.  He enquired patronizingly for the excellent Hubbards, asked his hostess if she did not mean to give him a drop of tea and a cigarette, remarked that he need not ask if Hermione was still closeted with the dress-maker, and, on the waiter’s coming in answer to his ring, ordered the tea himself, and added a request for fine champagne.  It was not the first time that Garnett had seen such minor liberties taken in Mrs. Newell’s drawing-room, but they had hitherto been taken by persons who had at least the superiority of knowing what they were permitting themselves, whereas the young man felt almost sure that Baron Schenkelderff’s manner was the most distinguished he could achieve; and this deepened the disgust with which, as the minutes passed, he yielded to the conviction that the Baron was Mrs. Newell’s aunt.