countess," whom, at the bottom of her soul, she cursed.
"And what a brain!" said Charrigaud, going her one better, though really entertaining the same feeling. "The other day at the Rothschilds I felt that it would be necessary to go back to the last century to find such perfect grace and such superiority."
"And even then!" said Joseph Brigard, capping the climax. "You see, my dear Monsieur Charrigaud, in democratic societies based upon equality" . . .
He was about to deliver one of those semi-gallant, semi-sociological discourses which he was fond of retailing in the salons, when the Countess Fergus entered, imposing and majestic, in a black gown embroidered with jet and steel that showed off the fat whiteness and soft beauty of her shoulders. And it was amid murmurs and whispers of admiration that they made their way ceremoniously to the dining-room.
The beginning of the dinner was rather cold. In spite of her success, perhaps even because of her success, the Countess Fergus was a little haughty, or, at least, too reserved. She seemed to wear an air of condescension at having honored with her presence the humble house of "these little people." Charrigaud thought he noticed that she examined with a discreetly but visibly contemptuous pout the
