Instead of being pleased with the charming sight of so much sincerity in the midst of these conventional praises, I anxiously followed Mme. de Saunois in her further majestic progress. “She knows nothing of music,” I heard some one reassure her. Later in the evening, a young professional pianist, of considerable though as yet unrecognised talent, began to play Mozart’s sonata in F, that one whose yielding rhythm expresses so much fresh and wholesome joy, touched here and there by the melancholy of youth. Every one in the drawing-room chattered, because this time there was no need to compliment, but Raymonde, attentive, forgotten and forgetful, listened gravely to the divine poem of youth. The people near her were talking aloud. Suddenly she seemed to awaken from her dream and I saw her quickly change her seat. What remarks I wondered had provoked her confusion and flight? Instead of being drawn toward her protection, I blamed her for holding such scruples about insignificant things. In short everything turned against her at this gathering, where I had expected to exhibit her proudly and obtain the approbation of the world. Soon people began to avoid her. Hostesses do not squander their energies at receptions or put themselves to any trouble for the entertainment of their guests nowadays as they used to do: they merely give them a chance to amuse themselves or be bored as they may see fit. In the hubbub which the end of the selection had called forth, she found herself alone, while all the others surrounded a woman--young?--whom I had not specially noticed, but whose evident fame now attracted my attention and took possession of me. I asked Mme. de Saunois about her as she was passing. “You do not know her? Why, she is famous. Mme. de H--, the author of ‘The Open Garden.’ A new muse.” There are so many of these nowadays that only the specialists can enumerate them: I confessed my ignorance, which amused my hostess. “You will know her very soon,” she added. “For she is going to recite some verses for us. She has a prodigious memory--for her own works. She has never been known to forget a single one of them--fortunately for us.” I confessed in the same tone of badinage my satisfaction at the prospect in store for me, remarking that the muse was already interesting to look at. This drew from Madame de Saunois the comment, “In what respect?” “In her colouring--that dark skin and red hair.” “It is dyed.” “Her pale face and those blood-red lips.” “Paint.” “Listen to her. She speaks our language with a singing accent. It sounds foreign and has a charm.” “Her mother is an Italian and her father a Pole. In her writing she expresses the soul of France. Her husband, that very excellent H--, brought her back from somewhere. But she is well connected. I have made inquiries. But what of that? With her here any drawing-room will be like a public garden, and the invasion will begin.” “What invasion?”