Mrs. Sheldam talked in
hesitating French to the Marquis de Potachre, an old fellow of venerable
and burlesque appearance. His fierce little white mustaches were curled
ceilingward, but his voice was as timid as honey. He flourished his
wizened hand toward Miss Adams.
"Charming! Delightful! She has something English in her _insouciant_
pose, and is wholly American in her cerebral quality. And what
colouring, what gorgeous brown hair! What a race, madame, is yours!"
Mrs. Sheldam began to explain that the Adams stock was famous, but the
marquis did not heed her. He peered at her niece through a gold-rimmed
monocle. The princess had left the group near the table and with two
young men slowly moved down the salon. Miss Adams was immediately
surrounded by some antiquated gentlemen wearing orders, who paid her
compliments in the manner of the eighteenth century. She answered them
with composure, for she was sure of her French, sure of herself--the
princess had not annihilated her. Her aunt, accompanied by the marquis,
crossed to her, and the old nobleman amused her with his saturnine
remarks.
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