Rachel was in love with Florimond. But she had a foreboding that this would not be safe; Pauline was capable of repeating her question to the others, of calling out to Rachel to come back and answer it. She contented herself, therefore, with asking her hostess about the little Meshes, and regaling her with anecdotes of Joanna's progeny.
"Don't you ever have your little ones with you at this hour?" she inquired. "You know this is what Longfellow calls the children's hour."
Mrs. Mesh hesitated a moment. "Well, you know, one can't have everything at once. I have my social duties now; I have my guests. I have Miss Torrance,—you see she is not a person one can overlook."
"I suppose not," said poor Mrs. Daintry, remembering how little she herself had overlooked her.
"Have you done brandishing that superannuated relic?" Mrs. Mesh asked of Rachel and Florimond, as they returned to the fireside. "I should as soon think of fanning myself with the fire-shovel!"
"He has broken my heart," Rachel said. "He tells me it is not a Watteau."
"Do you believe everything he tells you, my dear? His word is the word of the betrayer."
"Well, I know Watteau did n't paint fans," Florimond remarked, "any more than Michael Angelo."
"I suppose you think he painted ceilings," said Rachel Torrance. "I have painted a great many myself."
