“Good morning,” said Hortense. It sounded from a quiet well of reserve music; just a cupful of melodious tone dipped lightly out of the surface. Her face hadn’t become anything; but it was equally miraculous in its total void of all expression relating to this moment, or to any moment; just her beauty, her permanent stationary beauty, was there glowing in it and through it, not skin deep, but going back and back into her lazy eyes, and shining from within the modulated bloom of her color and the depths of her amber hair. She was choosing, for this occasion, to be as impersonal as some radiant hour in nature, some mellow, motionless day when the leaves have turned, but have not fallen, and it is drowsily warm; but it wasn’t so much of nature that she, in her harmonious lustre, reminded me, as of some beautiful silken-shaded lamp, from which color rather than light came with subdued ampleness. I saw her eyes settle upon the flowers that I had brought Eliza La Heu. “How beautiful those are!” she remarked. “Is there something that you wish?” inquired Miss La Heu, always miraculously sweet. “Some of your good things for lunch; a very little, if you will be so kind.” I had gone back to my table while the “very little” was being selected, and I felt, in spite of how slightly she counted me, that it would be inadequate in me to remain completely dumb. “Mr. Mayrant is still at the Custom House?” I observed. “For a few days, yes. Happily we shall soon break that connection.” And she smelt my flowers. “‘We,’” I thought to myself, “is rather tremendous.” It grew more tremendous in the silence as Eliza La Heu brought me my orders. Miss Rieppe did not seat herself to take the light refreshment which she found enough for lunch. Her plate and cup were set for her, but she walked about, now with one, and now with the other, taking her time over it, and pausing here and there at some article of the Exchange stock.