She gave another little laugh. "You have a nice instinct for the

    mot juste

   ," she informed him.

   "Oh, no," he disclaimed, modestly. "But I can call a

   fan a fan, when I think it won't shock the sensibilities of my hearer."

   "If the Countess only receives tremendous swells," said she, "you must remember that Victor Field belongs to the Aristocracy of Talent."

   "Oh,

    quant à ça

   , so, from the Wohenhoffens' point of view, do the barber and the horse-leech. In this house, the Aristocracy of Talent dines with the butler."

   "Is the Countess such a snob?" she asked.

   "No; she's an Austrian. They draw the line so absurdly tight in Austria."

   "Well, then, you leave me no alternative," she argued, "but to conclude that Victor Field is a tremendous swell. Didn't you notice, I bobbed him a curtsey?"

   "I took the curtsey as a tribute to my Oriental magnificence," he confessed. "Field doesn't sound like an especially patrician name. I'd give anything to discover who you are. Can't you be induced to tell me? I'll bribe, entreat, threaten—I'll do anything you think might persuade you."

   "I'll tell you at once, if you'll own up that you're Victor Field," said she.

   "Oh, I'll own up that I'm Queen Elizabeth if you'll tell me who you are. The end justifies the means."

   "Then you

    are

   Victor Field?" she pursued him eagerly.

 Prev. P 32/240 next