“You did that well, Marie Josephine. It was quite like mother’s Spanish friend at the opera,” Bertran du Monde said to her, taking her arm and bowing mockingly as they went toward the supper table. This was unusual praise from Bertran, who generally quarreled with her. “You think you can make me believe that you were ever allowed to go to your aunt’s box at the opera at night!” returned Marie Josephine. It was something she had wanted so very much to do herself. “I have been several times. Is that not so, Cécile?” Bertran answered, appealing to his sister, who had just come up to them with Madame le Pont and Hortense. Cécile nodded smilingly. It was a merry supper party, for somehow everyone seemed to be in good humor. Bertran pretended to be quite overcome at being the only gentleman among so many grand ladies. He sat at the foot of the table and Hortense at the head. She was lovely in rose-dotted silk, her wide skirts fluttering about her in the light wind, a fichu of thread lace fastened at her breast. Cécile was lovely, too, in her pale green, her golden hair dressed high as she had worn it at the bal masqué. Denise and Marie Josephine sat one on each side of the governess, both in white except for the gorgeous red of Marie’s shawl. Bertran had changed from his riding clothes into blue velvet trunks and waistcoat. His stiff black hair was fastened with a huge black velvet bow. The buckles on his velvet slippers sparkled like diamonds. They all laughed at him because he had put a black patch over his left eyebrow in imitation of a grown-up man-about-town. His face was so round and fat and he looked so young that such a very grown-up affair as a patch amused them all, especially Marie Josephine. “We all know you are fourteen and that you will not be a Grand Seigneur for a great many years.” Marie Josephine smiled sweetly across at Bertran as she spoke and emphasized _great_. “Is that so, Mademoiselle Spitfire,” Bertran answered, helping himself to salad as old Martin passed it to him. He spoke good-naturedly. There was a wide silver candelabra in the center of the table, covered with a gold-colored silk shade. The delicate dishes and the silver flashed in the soft light. Above them the stars twinkled a good evening and a big, round September moon looked down. “Is there no news of Neville, Martin?” Madame le Pont asked the old butler as he removed the cloth and put some silver dishes of nuts and a green bowl full of purple grapes on the table. “No news, Madame, but it is early yet to-night,” Martin answered. “I would not worry so much, Madame. It is bad traveling now and you know Neville may not have been able to get fresh mounts,” Bertran said to the governess with his most grown-up air. “Do let us talk of something else. I’m so tired of having some one ask every five minutes if there is news of Neville,” Denise said.