[MR. VENABLES, who enters, is such a courtly seigneur that he seems
to bring the eighteenth century with him; you feel that his sedan
chair is at the door. He stoops over MAGGIE's plebeian hand.]

VENABLES. I hope you will pardon my calling, Mrs. Shand; we had such
a pleasant talk the other evening.

[MAGGIE, of course, is at once deceived by his gracious manner.]

MAGGIE. I think it's kind of you. Do you know each other? The
Comtesse de la Briere.

[He repeats the name with some emotion, and the COMTESSE, half
mischievously, half sadly, holds a hand before her face.]

VENABLES. Comtesse.

COMTESSE. Thirty years, Mr. Venables.

[He gallantly removes the hand that screens her face.]

VENABLES. It does not seem so much.

[She gives him a similar scrutiny.]

COMTESSE. Mon Dieu, it seems all that.

[They smile rather ruefully. MAGGIE like a kind hostess relieves the
tension.]