Sybert was curiously inspecting a small white globule he found by his plate. Marcia laughed and called from the other end of the table: ‘It’s your own prescription, Mr. Sybert; drop it in your wine-glass and drink it like a man. I’ve taken my dose.’ During this exchange of badinage Paul Dessart said never a word. He sat with his eyes fixed moodily on the table-cloth, and—one hates to say it of Paul—he sulked. For the first time since she had known him, Marcia found him _difficile_. He started no subject himself, and those that she started, after a brief career, fell lifeless. It may have been that she herself was somewhat ill at ease, but in any case several awkward silences fell between them, which the young man made no attempt to break. Mr. Copley would never have said of him to-night that he was an ornament to any dinner-table. It fell to the Frenchman across the way to keep the ball rolling. In an errant glance toward the other end of the table, Marcia saw Sybert laughing softly at something Eleanor had said. She stayed her glance a second to note involuntarily how well they went together. Eleanor, with her white shoulders rising from a cloud of pale-blue gauze, looked fair and distinguished; and Sybert, with his dark face and sullen eyes, made an esthetically satisfying contrast. He was bending toward her with that air of easy politeness, that superior self-sufficiency, which had always exasperated Marcia so. But Eleanor knew how to take it; she had been out nine seasons, and the smile with which she answered him was quite as mocking as his own. He looked to-night, through and through, what Marcia had always taken him for—the finished cosmopolitan—the diplomat—the diner-out. But he was not just that, she knew; she had seen him off his guard in the midst of the storm that afternoon, and she was still tingling with the surprise of it. She recalled what Mr. Melville had said that afternoon in the ilex grove—she was always recalling what people said about Sybert. The things seemed to stick in one’s mind; he was a subject that gave rise to many _mots_. ‘You think you are very broad-minded because you see the man underneath the peasant. Don’t you think you could push your broad-mindedness one step further and see the man underneath the man of the world?’ She had caught a glimpse that afternoon. It seemed now as if his air of super civilization were only a mask to conceal—she did not know what, underneath. She was searching for an apt description when she heard the young Frenchman laughingly inquire: ‘Mademoiselle Copley _est un peu distraite ce soir, n’est-ce pas_?’