"Neither," Grover replied, suddenly deciding that if his quondam goddess should happen to be in the least interested in ascertaining just who and what he was, she could find out for herself. He was presented to the fourth member of the party, a stolid, heavy-eyed, heavy-nosed Hebraic man of fifty-odd whom they all tutoyé'd,—a M. Nussbaum.
Noémi's eyes roved over the room, pausing a moment on each group in dissatisfaction. It was as though the tempo of life were too slow for her, the rhythms too sluggish, the tones too thin. Her expression was as eloquent as if she had said, Mon Dieu, is there no end to the overwhelming insipidness of everything!
"Dites—Carlotta!" she suddenly called out, as the gray-haired Marchesa appeared at the door, all energy and flame.
They fell upon each other like long lost sisters, and Grover stole a glance at Olga, to see what eyes she had for Peñaverde's old confidante. All he saw was a polite sphinx sitting a little too upright, that she might not have to endure the flabbly proximity of Noémi's new impresario, as Grover guessed M. Nussbaum to be.
With the advent of the Marchesa, Noémi's spirits had risen and she was talking with animation about her plans and her new house at Maisons Lafitte, dominating her corner and vivifying her neighbors
