"They like it, just the same," retorted Recamier. "A genius likes
nothing better than the sound of his own voice, when he feels that it
is falling on aristocratic ears. The social laurel rests pleasantly
on many a noble brow."

"True," said Xanthippe. "But when a man gets a pile of Christmas
wreaths a mile high on his head, he begins to wonder what they will
bring on the market. An occasional wreath is very nice, but by the
ton they are apt to weigh on his mind. Up to a certain point
notoriety is like a woman, and a man is apt to love it; but when it
becomes exacting, demanding instead of permitting itself to be
courted, it loses its charm."

"That is Socratic in its wisdom," smiled Portia.

"But Xanthippic in its origin," returned Xanthippe. "No man ever
gave me my ideas."

As Xanthippe spoke, Lucretia Borgia burst into the room.

"Hurry and save yourselves!" she cried. "The boat has broken loose
from her moorings, and is floating down the stream. If we don't
hurry up and do something, we'll drift out to sea!"

"What!" cried Cleopatra, dropping her cue in terror, and rushing for
the stairs. "I was certain I felt a slight motion. You said it was
the wash from one of Charon's barges, Elizabeth."

"I thought it was," said Elizabeth, following closely after.