I have turned up trumps, by George!"

* * * * *

The Countess Regina de Villégby was lying on the sofa in her boudoir,
languidly fanning herself. She had only received three or four intimate
friends that day, Saint Mars Montalvin, Tom Sheffield, and his cousin,
Madame de Rhouel, a Creole, who laughed as incessantly as a bird sings.
It was growing dusk, and the distant rumbling of the carriages in the
Avenue of the Champs-Elysées sounded like some somnolent rhythm. There
was a delicate perfume of flowers; the lamps had not been brought in
yet, and chatting and laughing filled the room with a confused noise.

"Would you pour out the tea?" the Countess said, suddenly, touching
Saint Mars' fingers, who was beginning an amorous conversation in a low
voice, with her fan. And while he slowly filled the little china cup, he
continued: "Are the Montefiores as good as the lying newspapers make
out?"

Then Tom Sheffield and the others all joined in.

They had never seen anything like it, they declared; it was most
exciting, and made one shiver unpleasantly, like when the _espada_
comes to close quarters with the infuriated brute at a bull fight.

Countess Regina listened in silence, and nibbled the petals of a tea
rose.

"How I should like to see them!" giddy Madame de Rhouel exclaimed.