Foreign Affairs";
the significant words, "For him only," written higher up, seemed to give
this missive a character of intimacy.

"Pardon, monsieur," said the countess, receiving the paper, which he had
the good taste to return to her own hands in order to show his eagerness
to serve her. "Be so good, mademoiselle, as to carry that in a way not
to lose it," she added in a dry tone to the unlucky maid. The countess
then left her writing-table and took her seat on a sofa covered with
pearl-gray satin.

During these proceedings la Peyrade had the satisfaction of making an
inventory of all the choice things by which he was surrounded. Paintings
by good masters detached themselves from walls of even tone; on a
pier-table stood a very tall Japanese vase; before the windows the
jardinieres were filled with lilium rubrum, showing its handsome
reversely curling petals surmounted by white and red camellias and a
dwarf magnolia from China, with flowers of sulphur white with scarlet
edges. In a corner was a stand of arms, of curious shapes and
rich construction, explained, perhaps, by the lady's Hungarian
nationality--always that of the hussar. A few bronzes and statuettes
of exquisite selection, chairs rolling softly on Persian carpets, and a
perfect anarchy of stuffs of all kinds completed the arrangement of
this salon, which the lawyer had once before visited with Brigitte and
Thuillier before the countess moved into it. It was so transformed that
it seemed to him unrecognizable. With a little more knowledge of the
world la Peyrade would have been less surprised at the marvellous care
given by the countess to the decoration of the room. A woman's salon is
her kingdom, and her absolute domain; there, in the fullest sense of
the word, she reigns, she governs; there she offers battle, and nearly
always comes off victorious.

Coquettishly lying back in a corner of the sofa, her head carelessly
supported by an arm the form and whiteness of which could be seen
nearly to the elbow through the wide, open sleeve of a black velvet
dressing-gown, her Cinderella foot in its dainty slipper of Russia
leather resting on a cushion of orange satin, the handsome Hungarian had
the look of a portrait by Laurence or Winterhalter, plus the naivete of
the pose.

"Monsieur," she said, with the slightly foreign accent which lent an
added charm to her words, "I cannot help thinking it rather droll that
a man of your mind and rare penetration should