The petulant, imperious voice broke in upon her musing.

"Whatever are you doing, Sonia? Aren't you getting on with those
letters?" it cried angrily; and Germaine Gournay-Martin came through
the long window into the hall.

The heiress to the Gournay-Martin millions carried her tennis
racquet in her hand; and her rosy cheeks were flushed redder than
ever by the game. She was a pretty girl in a striking, high-
coloured, rather obvious way--the very foil to Sonia's delicate
beauty. Her lips were a little too thin, her eyes too shallow; and
together they gave her a rather hard air, in strongest contrast to
the gentle, sympathetic face of Sonia.

The two friends with whom Germaine had been playing tennis followed
her into the hall: Jeanne Gautier, tall, sallow, dark, with a
somewhat malicious air; Marie Bullier, short, round, commonplace,
and sentimental.

They came to the table at which Sonia was at work; and pointing to
the pile of envelopes, Marie said, "Are these all wedding-cards?"

"Yes; and we've only got to the letter V," said Germaine, frowning
at Sonia.

"Princesse de Vernan--Duchesse de Vauvieuse--Marquess--Marchioness?
You've invited the whole Faubourg Saint-Germain," said Marie,
shuffling the pile of envelopes with an envious air.