"You have no idea of the fitness of things. My story is pathetic: it
will look badly to see you drowned in tears--people will stare."

"I promise not to cry."

"Oh, if you are one of those stolid, unemotional beings who are never
moved, I sha'n't waste my tale upon you. Wait until to-morrow: we
will get Monsieur C---- to recount, and you shall hear something worth
listening to. He is a regular troubadour--has the same artless vanity
they were known to possess, their charming simplicity, their
gestures, and their power of investing everything with romance. One is
transported to the Middle Ages while he speaks: no book written on the
subject could so fully give you the flavor of the times. He recalls
Froissart. If you are not affected by C----'s stories, you had better
pretend to be. But that, I am sure, will not be necessary: a great
tragedian was lost when he became a great painter."

"Might I ask how and when and where I am to meet this wonderful man?"

"At the garden-party."

"In what way am I to get there?"

"By strategy. There is a little reunion to-night of what may be called
female Bohemians. They are going to settle the preliminaries of this
party, and if you happen to be present they will invite you; not that
they particularly care for your company, but because, as I said, you
happen to be there. Only don't get yourself into a mess by tramping on
any one's toes."