"Ah!" she said aloud to herself in French, "when will it be tea-time?"
As she spoke the words, the bells of a sleigh suddenly stopped with a
rattle beneath the window.
Immediately the countess rose and went to the mirror over the
mantel-piece. She arranged without enthusiasm her straggling hair, and
put straight a lace cap which was chronically crooked. She looked at her
reflection pessimistically, as well she might. It was the puffy red face
of a middle-aged woman given to petty self-indulgence.
"While she was engaged in this discouraging pastime the door was opened,
and a maid came in with the air of one who has gained a trifling
advantage by the simple method of peeping.
"It is M. Steinmetz, Mme. la Comtesse."
"Ah! Do I look horrible, Celestine? I have been asleep."
Celestine was French, and laughed with all the charm of that tactful
nation.
"How can Mme. la Comtesse ask such a thing? Madame might be
thirty-five!"
It is to be supposed that the staff of angelic recorders have a separate
set of ledgers for French people, with special discounts attaching to
pleasant lies.
Madame shook her head--and believed.
"M. Steinmetz is even now taking off his furs in the hall," said
Celestine, retiring toward the door.
"It is well. We shall want tea."
Steinmetz came into the room with an exaggerated bow and a twinkle in
his melancholy eyes.
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