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He smiled in winning fashion as he
spoke. Like everyone else, Denis had fallen under the spell of this
attractive and courteous old aristocrat who was saturated to the very
marrow in the lore of antiquity. There was sunshine in his glance--a
lustrous gem--like grace; one realized from his conversation, from his
every word, that he had discarded superfluities of thought and browsed
for a lifetime, in leisurely fashion, upon all that purifies and exalts
the spirit. Nothing, one felt, would avail to ruffle that deep pagan
content.
"And how," he continued, addressing Denis, "are your Italian studies
progressing?"
"Fairly well, thank you. My French puts me out a little. And I can't
yet conjugate properly."
"That is certainly a drawback," said Don Francesco, appearing on the
scene. "But don't let it trouble you," he added in paternal tones. "It
will come in time. You are still young. You are learning Russian,
Madame Steynlin?"
"Only a few words." She blushed becomingly. "There are certain sounds,
like water being poured into a jug--neither easy nor pleasant.


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