“_Je ne suis décidément qu’un imbécile!_” he apostrophized himself wrathfully, and noiselessly he quitted his post of observation. He had seen enough, and more than enough! At ten o’clock that night the Marquis de Plenhöel descended the _perron_ steps to hand Laurence from her coupé. She was marvelously gowned in dying-azure coruscated with diamond stars, and with loose-locked clusters of lilac orchids playing hide-and-seek in the lace of her train. She gave a rapid glance about her as she was being ceremoniously conducted to the great salon on the first floor, and when Régis bowed her in she asked, with an equivocal smile that made him writhe internally: “Where is Marguerite?” “Up-stairs in her own apartments,” he said, shortly, “taking a cup of tea with our old friend Madame de Montemare--I think you met her here some five years ago.” “I think I remember the occasion,” Laurence acquiesced without much enthusiasm; “and tell me, Cousin Régis”--this was the first time she had thus honored him--“is Marguerite ... are they coming down later?” “No,” Régis responded. “Marguerite does not like society; and as to Madame de Montemare, she claims that her circle of acquaintances is already too large, so she firmly refuses to increase it.” “Too bad! Too bad!” Laurence remarked, with a faint sigh of relief, her brilliant eyes roving over the magnificent drawing-room with its Louis XIV. furniture and tapestries lighted by many antique lamps, and wax candles in sconces and appliques half drowned in verdure and flowers. “It is charming here!” she approved. “So mellow and _distingué_; different, altogether different from any place I know.” Régis smiled a mere smile and bowed a little bow that vexed Laurence, in spite of her lovely thick skin. “You are very good!” the master of this “mellow” and “_distingué_” establishment admitted. “It has the merit of antiquity in a time altogether too modern--according to my poor views at least.” “You are a hardened Royalist!” she observed, with the least suspicion of a sneer. “A lover of all that no longer exists.” “And you, madame, are assuredly Imperial and modern _à outrance_!” he retorted with another bow. “In Russia one has to be an Imperialist,” she said, densely; “but politics do not interest me.” “Even in Russia?” he asked, curiously. “Especially there!” she said, quickly, an expression of mingled fear and disgust flitting over her features. He was looking down at her where she sat on a low ottoman almost at his feet, and the extreme décolletage of her sumptuous gown amazed him. “I am glad I did not let my _Chevalier_ see her; she’s getting quite brazen!” he thought, and added aloud, in order to say something, “That must sound odd to the Russian-speaking ear!” She clapped her gloved hands. “Oh!” she said. “Delicious! That is the finest Irish bull I ever heard.” He laughed a bit awkwardly. “I beg your pardon,” he apologized. “I was not thinking of what I was saying.”