"So you were captivated by my good-for-nothing of a nephew?" she
asked.

Involuntarily Julie shuddered, something in the experienced coquette's
look and tone seemed to say that Mme. de Listomere-Landon's knowledge
of her husband's character went perhaps deeper than his wife's. Mme.
d'Aiglemont, in dismay, took refuge in this transparent dissimulation,
ready to her hand, the first resource of an artless unhappiness. Mme.
de Listomere appeared to be satisfied with Julie's answers; but in her
secret heart she rejoiced to think that here was a love affair on hand
to enliven her solitude, for that her niece had some amusing
flirtation on foot she was fully convinced.

In the great drawing-room, hung with tapestry framed in strips of
gilding, young Mme. d'Aiglemont sat before a blazing fire, behind a
Chinese screen placed to shut out the cold draughts from the window,
and her heavy mood scarcely lightened. Among the old eighteenth-century
furniture, under the old paneled ceiling, it was not very easy to be
gay. Yet the young Parisienne took a sort of pleasure in this entrance
upon a life of complete solitude and in the solemn silence of the old
provincial house. She exchanged a few words with the aunt, a stranger,
to whom she had written a bride's letter on her marriage, and then sat
as silent as if she had been listening to an opera. Not until two
hours had been spent in an atmosphere of quiet befitting la Trappe,
did she suddenly awaken to a sense of uncourteous behavior, and
bethink herself of the short answers which she had given her aunt.
Mme. de Listomere, with the gracious tact characteristic of a bygone
age, had respected her niece's mood. When Mme. d'Aiglemont became
conscious of her shortcomings, the dowager sat knitting, though as a