The count was in an uncertain and almost uncomfortable state of mind. The letter he had received from Mrs. Shackleton, bidding him to the feast, was the second from her since Maud’s rejection of him. The first had been of a consolatory and encouraging nature. Mrs. Shackleton told him that Maud was young, and that many women said no, when they meant yes. The count knew both these things as well as Mrs. Shackleton; the latter, even better. But it seemed to him that Maud, young though she was, had not meant yes, and the handsome Frenchman was not the man to force his attentions on any woman. He watched her without appearing to notice her. She had been greatly embarrassed at sight of him, and only for the briefest moment let her cold fingers touch his palm. Under the flood of light from the dining-room chandelier she looked plainer than ever; her lack of color and stolid absence of animation being even more noticeable than usual in contrast with the brilliant pink and white prettiness of Pussy Thurston, who chattered gaily with everybody, and attempted a little French with De Lamolle. Maud sat beside Essex, and even that easily fluent gentleman found her difficult to interest. She appeared dull and unresponsive. Looking at her with slightly narrowed eyes, he wondered how the count, of whose name and exploits he had often heard in Paris, could contemplate so brave an act as marrying her. The count, who, having more heart, could see deeper, asked himself if the girl was really unhappy. As he listened to Miss Thurston’s marvelous French he wondered, with a little expanding heat of irritation, if the mother was trying to force the marriage against the daughter’s wish. He had broken hearts in his day, but it was not a pastime he found agreeable. He was too gallant a gentleman to woo where his courtship was unwelcome. When the gentlemen entered the drawing-room from their after-dinner wine and cigars, they found the ladies seated by one of the fires below the Mexican onyx mantels. Bessie rose as they approached and, turning to Essex, asked him if he had seen the Bouguereau on the easel, and steered him toward it. “It was one of Mr. Shackleton’s last purchases,” she said; “he was very anxious to have a fine collection. He had great taste.” Her companion, looking at the plump, pearly-skinned nymph and her attendant cupids, thought of Harney’s description of Shackleton in the days when he had first entered California, and said, with conviction: “What a remarkably versatile man your husband was! I had no idea he was interested in art.” “Oh, he loved it,” said Bessie, “and knew a great deal about it. We were in Europe two years ago for six months, and Mr. Shackleton and I visited a great many studios. That is a Meissonier over there, and that one we bought from Rosa Bonheur. She’s an interesting woman, looked just like a man. Then in the Moorish room there’s a Gérôme. Would you like to see it? It’s considered a very fine example.”