The Rostopchine in pale purple, and the Grangeon in an Indian thing all incrusted with green beetle-wings, a thing for a museum. They are talking with a uniform whom I do not know. She was speaking of you this evening Antonia, asking me what you are doing. She has great faith in your talent." Gerald's lip curled a little sourly, and he stood looking upward without reply.
She lives near Florence, you know, on another of these little hills." "Oh, does she!" "Her name is Mrs. Grangeon. She is an Englishwoman, with an extraordinary sense of, and feeling for, Italy. She is, at her best, a poet; at her worst, slightly deficient, perhaps, in humor. But her passion for Italy is genuine, and I have no doubt she sees it as glowing as the pictures she makes of it."
This seemed to him his opportunity, and excusing himself from Miss Grangeon, he started toward Aurora. "There are more ways than one of skinning a cat!" came floating to him in Aurora's deep-piled voice, borne on her frank laugh, as he approached. He found her having a very good time, but ready to call an end to it and go to be presented.
Still lingering in desultory talk, the former journalist now asked: "Have you seen the Grangeon?" "No," said Gerald. "Is she here?" "Yes; she is with the Rostopchine, in a box of the third order." He looked up and around to find the box with his eyes, and after a moment indicated it to Gerald. "There! Do you see them?