“Ah, my dear Wade!” cried he, pronouncing the name as if it were spelled Vahd.

Roger’s face lighted up. “D’Artois!” exclaimed he, and they shook hands with enthusiasm.

“How are you in this country without my hearing of it?” said Count d’Artois. “I’d not have believed one so famous could move about quietly.”

Mrs. Richmond and Beatrice—and Hank—were intensely interested spectators and listeners. D’Artois[103] turned to Mrs. Richmond. “Vahd must be extremely fond of you, that you are able to get him. In Paris they run after him in vain. He keeps himself hidden.”

[103]

Mrs. Richmond smiled nervously. Peter stared despondently at the big man thus suddenly disclosed as a great man. As for Beatrice, her eyes sparkled and her cheeks flushed proudly. Roger’s expression was good-natured tolerance, perhaps touched with annoyance. Dinner was announced and Beatrice took his arm. “I might have known!” she exclaimed, gazing up at him.

He reddened and frowned. “Known what?” said he.

“That you were famous.”

“Trash!” observed Roger carelessly. “D’Artois is polite. Also, he is my friend.”

“Oh, I know,” said the girl. “At lunch he was talking about you—what a great painter you are—how rapidly you, though an American, were making yourself famous in Europe. We didn’t dream he was talking of you. He pronounces your name peculiarly.”

“I’m enormously hungry,” said Roger. “Where do these people come from? I had no idea this was such a fashionable neighborhood.”

“Oh, they’re stopping in the house. Most of them came last night and to-day.”

Roger ate and listened to the girl on his left—Alicia[104] Kinnear, the tennis player. Mrs. Richmond had Count d’Artois on her right, and he talked steadily of “Vahd.” She listened sourly and from time to time shot a glance down the table at him—the glance of the alarmed and angry mother of a rather unmanageable heiress. Peter—directly opposite Roger—was as silent as he, but instead of covering his silence with appreciation of the Richmond chef he stared at the lace insertion of the tablecloth and crumbled and messed his roll. Beatrice was the happiest of the thirty-two at that table. She was radiant, ecstatic.

[104]

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