It was all very princely
and gorgeous and Parisian.
Vassili and his sister the marquise--a stout lady in ruby velvet and
amethysts, who invariably caused Maggie Delafield's mouth to twitch
whenever she opened her own during the evening--received the guests in
the drawing-room. They were standing on the white fur hearth-rug side by
side, when the doors were dramatically thrown open, and the servant
rolled the names unctuously over his tongue.
Steinmetz, who was behind, saw everything. He saw Vassili's masklike
face contract with stupefaction when he set eyes on Etta. He saw the
self-contained Russian give a little gasp, and mutter an exclamation
before he collected himself sufficiently to bow and conceal his face.
But he could not see Etta's face for a moment or two--until the formal
greetings were over. When he did see it, he noted that it was as white
as marble.
"Aha! Ce bon Steinmetz!" cried Vassili, with less formality, holding out
his hand with frank and boyish good humor.
"Aha! Ce cher Vassili!" returned Steinmetz, taking the hand.
"It is good of you, M. le Prince, and you, madame, to honor us in our
small house," said the marquise in a guttural voice such as one might
expect from within ruby velvet and amethysts. Thereafter she subsided
into silence and obscurity so far as the evening was concerned and the
present historian is interested.
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