My friend Pierre Ducal came forward to speak to us. He was cordial in his greeting, but my wife did not remember him. “I looked at him so little,” she explained to me later, by way of apology. “And how should I have seen him? It was our wedding day!” Nothing is more offensive to a man who prides himself on the number of hearts he has broken, than the knowledge that he has left absolutely no impression on a young woman’s mind. Ducal turned coldly away to pay his homages elsewhere and make his scathing comments; and as I had no doubt of his pique nor of the vengeance he was taking, Raymonde’s maladroitness gave me fresh cause for irritation. The very man upon whom I had counted as an ally she had succeeded in offending. Mme. de Saunois being asked--asked, it must be confessed, without much eagerness--consented to give us a romance by Duparc, which no doubt she would follow with one or two others, perhaps three, if she found herself in voice or were sufficiently encouraged. Singing was her passion, a perfect mania, indeed. She had a thread of a voice, which she eked out with a pantomime meant to suggest unbounded temperament. Her pretensions to artistic ability were inordinate. She allowed herself to be called a great society singer in the newspaper paragraphs. People laughed heartily about it all behind her back, but in her presence restrained their amusement as best they could, so that she was doomed never to know the real impression she created. After her first selection, the last note of it still hanging on her lips, her guests rushed to her from all sides, at the risk of stifling her, and let loose upon her an avalanche of compliments and appreciation. They compared her, without shame, to this or that celebrity, preferably foreigners, who are more apt to pass current without the stamp of critical approval. Being unable to praise the volume of her voice, they made up by praising its timbre, and above all, her spirit, as being something less definite and discernible and so a safer basis of compliment. Raymonde alone kept her place, motionless, a slender isle of truth in the midst of this sea of falsehood. Mme. de Saunois, after her last grand aria, with unrestrained enthusiasm in her wake, passed in front of us. “Well, Madame, have I your approval?” she inquired. Apparently she had not yet her fill of praise: she must have something from Raymonde too, all the more delicious because it was kept back by some resisting scruple. I listened anxiously for Raymonde’s reply. “The music is new to me,” murmured my wife. “I think I shall like it when I know it better.” “Yes, isn’t it, and so suggestive! It has to be well interpreted,” said Mme. de Saunois. Clearly enough it was not a question of the romance but of its interpreter. “I am not accustomed to it,” answered Raymonde. “But perhaps that will come later,” she added, poor little one, calling to her aid her most gracious smile.