“We have tastes so much in common,” my aunt explained, as she moved away to welcome a new arrival. I was left alone with the woman who called herself my sister.
We stood a little apart. Each little group of talkers in the vast room seemed to stand just without earshot of the next. I had my back to the door, my face to her.
“And so you have come,” she said, maliciously it seemed to me.
It was impossible to speak in such a position; in such a place; impossible to hold a discussion on family affairs when a diminutive Irishwoman with too mobile eyebrows, and a couple of gigantic, rawboned, lugubrious Spaniards, were in a position to hear anything that one uttered above a whisper. One might want to raise one’s voice. Besides, she was so—so terrible; there was no knowing what she might not say. She so obviously did not care what the Irish or the Spaniards or the Jesuits heard or thought, that I was forced to the mortifying conclusion that I did.
“Oh, I’ve come,” I answered. I felt as outrageously out of it as one does at a suburban hop where one does not know one animal of the menagerie. I did not know what to do or what to say, or what to do with my hands. I was pervaded by the unpleasant idea that all those furtive eyes were upon me; gauging me because I was the brother of a personality. I was concerned about the fit of my coat and my boots, and all the while I was in a furious temper; my errand was important.
She stood looking at me, a sinuous, brilliant thing, with a light in the eyes half challenging, half openly victorious.
“You have come,” she said, “and …”
I became singularly afraid of her; and wanted to stop her mouth. She might be going to say anything. She overpowered me so that I actually dwindled—into the gawkiness of extreme youth. I became a goggle-eyed, splayfooted boy again and made a boy’s desperate effort after a recovery at one stroke of an ideal standard of dignity.
“I must have a word with you,” I said, remembering. She made a little gesture with her hands, signifying “I am here.” “But in private,” I added.
“Oh, everything’s in private here,” she said. I was silent.
“I must,” I added after a time.
“I can’t retire with you,” she said; “ ‘it would look odd,’ you’d say, wouldn’t you?” I shrugged my shoulders in intense irritation. I didn’t want to be burlesqued. A flood of fresh people came into the room. I heard a throaty “ahem” behind me. The Duc de Mersch was introducing himself to notice. It was as I had thought—the man was an habitué, with his well-cut clothes, his air of protestation, and his tremendous golden poll. He was the only sunlight that the gloomy place rejoiced in. He bowed low over my oppressor’s hand, smiled upon me, and began to utter platitudes in English.
“Oh, you may speak French,” she said carelessly.
“But your brother. …” he answered.
“I understand French very well,” I said. I was in no mood to spare him embarrassments; wanted to show him that I had a hold over him, and knew he wasn’t the proper person to talk to a young lady. He glared at me haughtily.
“But yesterday …” he began in a tone that burlesqued august displeasure. I was wondering what he had looked like on the other side of the door—whilst that lady had been explaining his nature to me.
“Yesterday I wished to avoid embarrassments,” I said; “I was to represent your views about Greenland. I might have misunderstood you in some important matter.”
“I see, I see,” he said conciliatorily. “Yesterday we spoke English for the benefit of the British public. When we speak French we are not in public, I hope.” He had a semi-supplicating manner.
“Everything’s rather too much in public here,” I answered. My part as I imagined it was that of a British brother defending his sister from questionable attentions—the person who “tries to show the man he isn’t wanted.” But de Mersch didn’t see the matter in that light at all. He could not, of course. He was as much used to being purred to as my aunt to looking down on non-county persons. He seemed to think I was making an incomprehensible insular joke, and laughed non-committally. It wouldn’t have been possible to let him know he wasn’t wanted.
“Oh, you needn’t be afraid of my brother,” she said suddenly. “He is quite harmless. He is even going to give up writing for the papers except when we want him.”
The Duc turned from me to her, smiled and bowed. His smile was inane, but he bowed very well; he had been groomed into that sort of thing or had it in the blood.
“We work together still?” he asked.
“Why not?” she answered.
A hubbub of angry voices raised itself behind my back. It was one of the contretemps that made the Salon Grangeur famous throughout the city.
“You forced yourself upon me. Did I say anywhere that you were responsible? If it resembles your particular hell upon earth, what is that to me? You do worse things; you, yourself, monsieur. Haven’t I seen … haven’t I seen it?”
The Duc de Mersch looked swiftly over his shoulder toward the window.
“They seem to be angry there,” he said nervously. “Had not something better be done, Miss Granger?”
Miss Granger followed the direction of his eyes.
“Why,” she said, “we’re used to these differences of opinion. Besides, it’s only Monsieur Radet; he’s forever at war with someone or other.”
“He ought to be shown the door,” the Duc grumbled.
“Oh, as for that,” she answered, “we couldn’t. My aunt would be desolated by such
