doing, inquired about Richards, whom he avowed he liked—they had not, I afterwards recalled, exchanged more than three words—, and concluded with a sort of rhapsody on Clara's voice, which he pronounced magnificently suited to the new music.
Presently Clara herself came back into the room, bearing a tray with a pot of tea, toast and petits fours. She placed her burden on the piano bench while she quickly swept the débris from the table. Then she transferred the tea service to the unoccupied space and we drew up our chairs.
Where have you been? asked Clara. Martha says she hasn't seen you. Will you have one lump or two?
Two. You know, when one comes to Paris for the first time—
I took Van Vechten about a bit the other night, Peter broke in. I think I forgot to tell you. We've had so much to talk about. . . .
Clara interrupted the shadow of an anserine smile to nibble a pink cake. Her legs protruded at an odd angle and I caught myself looking at her thick ankles.
You're looking at my legs! she exclaimed. You mustn't do that! I have very ugly legs.
But they're very sympathetic! cried Peter. Don't you think they're sympathetic, Van Vechten?
I assured him that I did and we went on talking, a little constrainedly, I thought, about nothing in particular, until, at length, Peter asked Clara if she
