“Not at all. It is striking six o’clock. The dinner was for half past seven. You must have this sent to him quickly.” She was writing hastily at a corner of the table. “What a strange girl, _mon Dieu! mon Dieu!_” murmured the dancer in bewilderment, while Felicia, delighted, transfigured, was joyously sealing her letter. “There! my excuse is made. Headaches have not been invented for Kadour.” Then, the letter having been despatched: “Oh, how pleased I am! What a jolly evening we shall have! Do kiss me, Constance! It will not prevent us from doing honour to your _kuchen_, and we shall have the pleasure of seeing you in a pretty toilette which makes you look younger than I do.” This was more than was required to cause the dancer to forgive this new caprice of her dear demon, and the crime of _lese-majeste_ in which she had just been involved against her will. To treat so great a personage so cavalierly! There was no one like her in the world--there was no one like her. As for Paul de Gery, he no longer tried to resist, under the spell once more of that attraction from which he had been able to fancy himself released by absence, but which, from the moment he crossed the threshold of the studio, had put chains on his will, delivered him over, bound and vanquished, to the sentiment which he was quite resolved to combat. Evidently the dinner--a repast for a veritable _gourmet_, superintended by the Austrian lady in its least details--had been prepared for a guest of great mark. From the lofty Kabyle chandelier with its seven branches of carved wood, which cast its light over the table-cloth covered with embroidery, to the long-necked decanters holding the wines within their strange and exquisite form, the sumptuous magnificence of the service, the delicacy of the meats, to which edge was given by a certain unusualness in their selection, revealed the importance of the expected visitor, the anxiety which there had been to please him. The table was certainly that of an artist. Little silver, but superb china, much unity of effect, without the least attempt at matching. The old Rouen, the pink Sevres, the Dutch glass mounted in old filigree pewter met on this table as on a sideboard devoted to the display of rare curios collected by a connoisseur exclusively for the satisfaction of his taste. A little disorder naturally, in this household equipped at hazard, as choice things could be picked up. The wonderful cruet-stand had lost its stoppers. The chipped salt-cellar allowed its contents to escape on the table-cloth, and at every moment you would hear, “Why! what is become of the mustard-pot?” “What has happened to this fork?” This embarrassed de Gery a little on account of the young mistress of the house, who for her part took no notice of it.