"
Every one laughed. Mrs. Sheldam wondered what a Superman was, and
Ermentrude felt annoyed. Zarathustra was another of her gods, and this
brusquely related anecdote did not seem to her very spirituelle. But
she had not formulated an answer when she heard a name announced, a name
that set her heart beating. At last! The poet had kept his word. She was
to meet in the flesh the man whose too few books were her bibles of art,
of philosophy, of all that stood for aspiration toward a lovely ideal in
a dull, matter-of-fact world.
"Now," said the princess, as if smiling at some hidden joke, "now you
will meet _my_ Superman." And she led the young American girl to Octave
Keroulan and his wife, and, after greeting them in her masculine manner,
she burst forth:--
"Dear poet! here is one of your adorers from overseas. Guard your
husband well, Madame Lys."
So he was married. Well, that was not such a shocking fact. Nor was
Madame Keroulan either--a very tall, slim, English-looking blonde, who
dressed modishly and evidently knew that she was the wife of a famous
man.
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