“Poor chap, does he? But then, that’s a way they have, rising young literary persons?” His tone was interrogative. “Doubtless,” she agreed. “Poems and stories and things. And book reviews, I suspect. And even, perhaps, leading articles in the newspapers.” “Toute la lyre enfin? What they call a penny-a-liner?” “I’m sure I don’t know what he’s paid. I should think he’d get rather more than a penny. He’s fairly successful. The things he does aren’t bad,” she said. “I must look ’em up,” said he. “But meantime, will you tell me how you came to mistake me for him? Has he the Chinese type? Besides, what on earth should a little London literary man be doing at the Countess Wohenhoffen’s?” “He was standing near the door, over there,” she told him, sweetly, “dying for a little human conversation, till I took pity on him. No, he hasn’t exactly the Chinese type, but he’s wearing a Chinese costume, and I should suppose he’d feel uncommonly hot in that exasperatingly placid Chinese head. I’m nearly suffocated, and I’m only wearing a loup. For the rest, why shouldn’t he be here?” “If your loup bothers you, pray take it off. Don’t mind me,” he urged gallantly. “You’re extremely good,” she responded. “But if I should take off my loup, you’d be sorry. Of course, manlike, you’re hoping that I’m young and pretty.” “Well, and aren’t you?” “I’m a perfect fright. I’m an old maid.” “Thank you. Manlike, I confess I was hoping you’d be young and pretty. Now my hope has received the strongest confirmation. I’m sure you are,” he declared triumphantly. “Your argument, with a meretricious air of subtlety, is facile and superficial. Don’t pin your faith to it. Why shouldn’t Victor Field be here?” she persisted. “The Countess only receives tremendous swells. It’s the most exclusive house in Europe.” “Are you a tremendous swell?” she wondered. “Rather!” he asseverated. “Aren’t you?” She laughed a little, and stroked her fan, a big fan of fluffy black feathers. “That’s very jolly,” said he. “What?” said she. “That thing in your lap.” “My fan?” “I expect you’d call it a fan.” “For goodness’ sake, what would you call it?” cried she. “I should call it a fan.” She gave another little laugh. “You have a nice instinct for the mot juste,” she informed him. “Oh, no,” he disclaimed, modestly. “But I can call a fan a fan, when I think it won’t shock the sensibilities of my hearer.” “If the Countess only receives tremendous swells,” said she, “you must remember that Victor Field belongs to the Aristocracy of Talent.” “Oh, quant à ça, so, from the Wohenhoffens’ point of view, do the barber and the horse-leech. In this house, the Aristocracy of Talent dines with the butler.” “Is the Countess such a snob?” she asked. “No; she’s an Austrian. They draw the line so absurdly tight in Austria.” “Well, then, you leave me no alternative,” she argued, “but to conclude that Victor Field is a tremendous swell. Didn’t you notice, I bobbed him a curtsey?”