only called "bluff." Claude de
Chauxville's acceptance of the same had been the second move. And these
two persons, who were not afraid of each other, shook hands with a
pleasant smile of greeting, while Paul hurried toward them through the
busy streets.

"Am I forgiven--that I am invited to dinner?" asked De Chauxville
imperturbably, when the servant had left them alone.

Etta was one of those women who are conscious of their dress. Some may
protest that a lady moving in such circles would not be so. But in all
circles women are only women, and in every class of life we meet such as
Etta Bamborough. Women who, while they talk, glance down and rearrange a
flower or a piece of lace. It is a mere habit, seemingly small and
unimportant; but it marks the woman and sets her apart.

Etta was standing on the hearthrug, beautifully dressed--too beautifully
dressed, it is possible, to sit down. Her maid had a moment earlier
confessed that she could do no more, and Etta had come down stairs a
vision of luxury, of womanly loveliness. Nevertheless, there appeared to
be something amiss. She was so occupied with a flower at her shoulder
that she did not answer at once.

"Forgiven for what?" she asked at length, in that preoccupied tone of
voice which tells wise men that only questions of dress will be
considered.

De Chauxville shrugged his shoulders in his graceful Gallic way.

"Mon Dieu!" he exclaimed. "For a crime which requires no excuse, and no
explanation other than a mirror."

She looked up at him innocently.

"A mirror?"

"Yours. Have you forgiven me for falling in love with you? It is, I am
told, a crime that women sometimes condone."

"It was no crime," she said. She had heard the wheels of Paul's
carriage. "It was a misfortune. Please let us forget that it ever
happened."

De Chauxville twirled his neat mustache, looking keenly at her the
while.

"You forget," he said. "But I--will remember."

She did not answer, but turned with a smile to greet Paul.

"I think you know each other," she said gracefully when she had shaken
hands, and the two men bowed. They were foreigners, be it understood.
There were three languages in which they could understand each other
with equal ease.

"Where _is_ Maggie?" exclaimed Mrs. Bamborough. "She is always late."

"When I am here," reflected De Chauxville. But he did not say it.

Miss Delafield kept them waiting a few minutes, and during that time
Etta Sydney Bamboroug