"You do eet too much to me honor," he said, with a dignity which was worthy of his family. "Ladies, _votre serviteur_." He made his exit in a manner to be admired. Mrs. Croydon feigned to shrink aside as he passed her, but Mrs. Neligage looked at her with so open a laugh at this performance that confusion overcame the dame of bugles, and she moved forward disconcerted. She had not yet gained a seat, when Miss Wentstile faced her with all her most unrestrained fashion. "I shouldn't think, Mrs. Croydon, that you, with the stain of a divorce court on you, were in position to throw stones at Count Shimbowski. He has done nothing but follow the customs to which he's been brought up." "Perhaps that's true of Mrs. Croydon too," murmured Mrs. Neligage to Alice. "If you wanted to tell me," Miss Wentstile went on, "why didn't you tell me when he was not here? No wonder foreigners think we are barbarians when a nobleman is insulted like that." "I didn't mean to tell you," Mrs. Croydon stammered humbly. "It just came out." "Why didn't you mean to tell me?" demanded Miss Wentstile, whose anger had evidently deprived her for the time being of all coolness. "Why, I thought you were engaged to him!" blurted out Mrs. Croydon, fairly crimson from brow to chin. "Engaged!" echoed Miss Wentstile, half breathless with indignation. Mrs. Neligage came to the rescue, cool and collected, entirely mistress of herself and of the situation. "Really, Mrs. Croydon," she suggested, smiling, "don't you think that is bringing Western brusqueness home to us in rather a startling way? We don't speak of engagements until they are announced, you know." "But Miss Wentstile told me the other day that she might announce one soon," persisted Mrs. Croydon, into whose flushed face had come a look of baffled obstinacy. Mrs. Neligage threw up her hands in a graceful little gesture. She played private theatricals infinitely better than Mrs. Croydon. There was in their art all the difference between the work of the most clumsy amateur and a polished professional. "There is nothing to do but to tell it," she said, as if appealing to Miss Wentstile and Alice. "The engagement was that of Miss Endicott and my son. Miss Wentstile never for a moment thought of marrying the Count. She knew from me that he gambled and was a famous duelist." Alice put out her hand suddenly, and caught that of the widow. "Oh, Mrs. Neligage!" she cried. The widow patted the girl's fingers. The face of Miss Wentstile was a study for a novelist who identifies art with psychology. "Of course I ought not to have told, Alice," Mrs. Neligage went on; "but I'm sure Mrs. Croydon is to be trusted. It isn't fair to your aunt that this nonsensical notion should be abroad that she meant to marry the Count." Mrs. Croydon was evidently too bewildered to understand what had taken place. She awkwardly congratulated Alice, apologized to Miss Wentstile for having made a scene, and somehow got herself out of the way.