asked. "I can fill the Grand Opera House quite easily."
"You sing it to perfection," said I. "There's nothing wrong, nothing at all. Wetter here is mad."
"Wetter is certainly mad," echoed Varvilliers, rising from the sofa.
"Wetter is damned mad," said Wetter.
"Wetter is right—ah, so right," came in a despairing grumble from poor Struboff, who still played away.
"To supper, to supper!" cried Wetter. "You're right, all of you. And I'm right. And I'm mad. To supper! No, let Struboff play. Struboff, you want to play. Play on."
Struboff nodded again and played on. His notes, now plaintive, now triumphant, were the accompaniment to our meal, filling the pauses, enriching, as it seemed, the talk. But Coralie was deep in foie gras, and paid no heed to them. Wetter engaged in some vehement discussion with Varvilliers, who met him with good-humoured pertinacity. I had dropped out of the talk, and sat listening dreamily to Struboff's music. Suddenly Coralie laid down her knife and turned to me.
"Wouldn't it be nice if I were going to be married to you?" she asked.
"Charming," said I. "But what of our dear M. Struboff? And what of my Cousin Elsa?"
"We wouldn't trouble about them." She was looking at me with a shrewd gaze. "No," she said, "you wouldn't like it. Shall we try another arrangement?" She leaned toward me and laid her pretty hand on my arm. "Wetter and I—I am not very well placed, but let it pass—Wetter and I, Varvilliers and the Princess, you and the Countess."
