Her presence indeed at so early an hour (it was not much past one) on Berthe’s “day” suggested something more important than an ordinary visit. A “day” is a thing that deserves to be noticed amongst the institutions of modern Paris life. Everybody has a day. Women in society have one from necessity, for the convenience of their visitors whose name is Legion. Women not in society have one because they like to be included amongst those with whom it is a necessity. The former speak of their day as “_mon jour_” and as a rule hate it, because it ties them down to stay one day in the week at home. The latter speak of it as “_mon jour de réception_,” and glory in it. For the former it is a mere episode, an occasion amongst many for toilette and gossip, mostly of the Grandhomme and Folibel kind, but often of a more serious character, sometimes even of conversation on such grave topics as politics, science, and theology. For the latter, it is a grand opportunity for dress, and dulness, and weary expectation. Madame, attired in state, sits on her sofa like patience on a monument, smiling, not on grief, but on hope--hope of visitors, who come like angels, few and far between. Woe be unto the false or foolish friend who, under any pretence of business, or kind inquiries, or lack of time, should pass by this day of days, and call on some insignificant day, when neither madame, nor the _salon_, nor the _valet-de-chambre_ is in toilette to receive him! But it is not into one of these dreary Saharas that we have strayed. Berthe’s day is as busy as a fair. So great is the concourse of visitors that, although the reception begins officially at three, the rooms begin to fill soon after two, those who really want to speak to her alleging, as an excuse for forcing the _consigne_, that, when _la cour et la ville_ are there, it is a sheer impossibility to get a word with her. “A service!” repeated Berthe. “I hope it is not too good to be true.” “_Toujours charmante!_” Madame de Beaucœur took her hand and pressed it. “But the favor I am going to ask does not directly concern myself. You know Madame de Chassedot?” “Slightly; I meet her here and there; we bow, but we don’t speak.” “She has deputed me to speak for her to-day. Do you know her son at all?” “A fair youth, tall and good-looking?” “Precisely.” “I think I danced with him at the Marine, the other night,” said Berthe reflectively. “Then you know him at his best; he dances divinely; but I believe that is the only thing he excels in,” observed Madame de Beaucœur. “He is very stupid?” said Berthe interrogatively.