A minute scuffle of the shortest duration was taking place beside me.
There were a couple of men at my elbow. I don't in the least know what
they were--perhaps marquises, perhaps railway employees--one never can
tell over there. One of them was tall and blond, with a heavy,
bow-shaped red moustache--Irish in type; the other of no particular
height, excellently groomed, dark, and exemplary. I knew he was
exemplary from some detail of costume that I can't remember--his gloves
or a strip of silk down the sides of his trousers--something of the
sort. The blond was saying something that I did not catch. I heard the
words "de Mersch" and "_Anglaise_," and saw the dark man turn his
attention to the little group below. Then I caught my own name
mispronounced and somewhat of a stumbling-block to a high-pitched
contemptuous intonation. The little correspondent, who was on my other
arm, started visibly and moved swiftly behind my back.

"_Messieurs_," he said in an urgent whisper, and drew them to a little
distance. I saw him say something, saw them pivot to look at me, shrug
their shoulders and walk away. I didn't in the least grasp the
significance of the scene--not then.

"What's the matter?" I asked my returning friend; "were they talking
about me?" He answered nervously.

"Oh, it was about your aunt's Salon, you know. They might have been
going to say something awkward ... one never knows."

"They really _do_ talk about it then?" I said. "I've a good mind to
attend one of their exhibitions."