Mme. Sutrin left him to the mercies of a group watching the dancing from the end of the room opposite the jazz band. “This noise,” began Ventrillon, promptly, to a negligible lady beside him, “is it music?” “Ah, no, monsieur,” confessed the lady; “but it is the fashion.” “Then I must like it,” said Ventrillon. “One has not met you before, I believe, monsieur?” said the lady. “I have not been a success before,” said Ventrillon. The lady laughed. “Then you do not know anybody. I shall have to inform you. The little woman with the red hair near the door is Madame Ribot, the wife of the journalist. She has a wicked tongue; it is well to cultivate her. Her husband controls public opinion, and she controls him. The man behind her is the Minister of Public Services----” A passing couple jostled the minister’s arm and, awkwardly, attempting to save it, he dropped his teacup. Crimson even to the barren scalp of his head, he stooped to mop with his handkerchief at the spilled tea in the lap of Mme. Ribot. The little red-haired woman smiled, clenched her teeth, and bided her time. “Madame,” said Ventrillon, “I sit at your feet and learn. I had never before known that a Minister of Public Services could drop a teacup.” The lady laughed again. “Monsieur,” she said, “you are delicious. Look! The tall blonde who enters is the Belletaille----” With a resounding metallic crash, the jazz band happened at that moment to stop short. Short of breath, the dancing couples separated. In the gap of the portières stood a lean, hawk-nosed woman in black, with a dead-white face of astonishing and fascinating ugliness. One shoulder was held higher than the other, one chalky hand rested with fingers wide-spread upon her uncorseted hip, and the other caressed at her waist the enormous bunch of scarlet amaryllis without which she was never seen. Everybody turned to look. The Belletaille, as usual, had achieved an entrance. “‘Allo evreebodee!” she cried in English, showing all her fine white teeth. “Ah, there you are, my Marianne! Kiss me! And, oh, my dear Madame Sutrin, how pleased I am to come! _C’est épatant!_ A jazz band! _Bon dieu_, but it is ravishing! Aha! Théodule--_ça gaz?_” She had called the Minister of Public Services Théodule and asked him how he was in slang. “That,” thought Ventrillon, “is success.” Taking for granted that everybody was overwhelmed with delight at seeing her, on she came, with a bow here and a handshake there, until in the centre of the room she halted abruptly. “Théodule,” she cried, “I forgot to tell Madame Hortense to send up that gown this evening. Telephone her for me. And hasten, or the shop will be closed.” The Minister of Public Services obeyed and left the room.