h gave a very fine display of prowess with the
double-stringed bow. When a man attempts to handle this delicate weapon,
he usually makes, if one may put it thus crudely, an ass of himself. He
generally succeeds in snapping one and probably both of the strings,
injuring himself most certainly in the process.

Not so, however, this clever lady. She had a smile and an epigram for
Claude de Chauxville, a grave air of sympathetic interest in more
serious affairs for Paul Alexis. She was bright and amusing, guileless
and very worldly wise in the same breath--simple for Paul and a match
for De Chauxville, within the space of three seconds. Withal she was a
beautiful woman beautifully dressed. A thousand times too wise to scorn
her womanhood, as learned fools are prone to do in print and on platform
in these wordy days, but wielding the strongest power on earth, to wit,
that same womanhood, with daring and with skill. A learned woman is not
of much account in the world. A clever woman moves as much of it as lies
in her neighborhood--that is to say, as much as she cares to rule. For
women love power, but they do not care to wield it at a distance.

Paul was asked to take Mrs. Sydney Bamborough down to dinner by the lady
herself.

"Mon ami," she said in a quiet aside to De Chauxville, before making her
request, "it is the first time the prince dines here."

She spoke in French. Maggie and Paul were talking together at the other
end of the room. De Chauxville bowed in silence.

At dinner the conversation was necessarily general, and, as such, is not
worth reporting. No general conversation, one finds, is of much value
when set down in black and white. It is not even grammatical nowadays.
To be more correct, let us note that the talk lay between Etta and M. de
Chauxville, who had a famous supply of epigrams and bright nothings
delivered in such a way that they really sounded like wisdom. Etta was
equal to him, sometimes capping his sharp wit, sometimes contenting
herself with silvery laughter. Maggie Delafield was rather distraite, as
De Chauxville noted. The girl's dislike for him was an iron that entered
the quick of his vanity anew every time he saw her. There was no
petulance in the aversion, such as he had perceived with other maidens
who were only resenting a passing negligence or seeking to pique his
curiosity. This was a steady and, if you will, unmaidenly aversion,
which Maggie conscientiously attempted to conceal.