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Dinner was over, and Mme. Constantin and her guests were seated under the lighted candles in her cosey salon.
With the serving of the coffee and cigarettes, pillows had been adjusted to bare shoulders, stools moved under slippered feet, and easy lounges pushed nearer the fire. Greenough, his long body aslant, his head on the edge of a chair, his feet on the hearth rug, was blowing rings to the ceiling. Bayard, the African explorer, and the young Russian Secretary, Ivan Petrovski, had each the end of a long sofa, with pretty Mme. Petrovski and old Baron Sleyde between them, while Mme. Constantin lay nestled like a kitten among the big and little cushions of a divan.
The dinner had been a merry one, with every brain at its best; this restful silence was but another luxury. Only the Baron rattled on. A duel of unusual ferocity had startled Paris, and the old fellow knew its every detail. Mme. Petrovski was listening in a languid way:
"Dead, isn't he?" she asked in an indifferent tone, as being the better way to change the subject. Duels did not interest the young bride.
"No," answered the Baron, flicking the ashes from his cigarette--"going to get well, so Mercier, who operated, told a friend of mine to-day."
"Where did they fight?" she asked, as she took a fresh cigarette from her case. "Ivan told me, but I forgot."
"At Surenne, above the bridge. You know the row of trees by the water; we walked there the day we dined at the Cycle."
"Both of them fools!" cried the Russian from the depths of his seat. "La Clou wasn't worth it--she's getting fat."
Greenough drew his long legs back from the fender and, looking toward the young Secretary, said in a decided tone:--
"I don't agree with you, Ivan. Served the beggar right; the only pity is that he's going to get well."
"But she wasn't his wife," remarked Mme. Petrovski with increased interest, as she lighted her cigarette.
"No matter, he loved her," returned the Englishman, straightening in his seat and squaring his broad shoulders.
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