"No more, Count. We are all of us getting to be old enough to be our own grandmothers. Miss Wentstile looks as if she was at the Flood and forgot to go in when it rained."
The Count looked more puzzled than amused at this sally, but his politeness came to his rescue. A compliment is always the resource of a man of the world when a lady puzzles him.
"Eet ees only Madame Neleegaze to what belong eemortal youth," he said with a bow.
She rose and swept him a courtesy, and then took from her dress one of the flowers she was wearing, which chanced to be very portly red carnations.
"You are as gallant as ever, Count," she said, "so that your English doesn't matter. Besides that, you have a title; and American women love a title as a moth loves a candle."
She stuck the carnation into his buttonhole as she spoke, and returned to her seat, where she settled herself with the air of one ready for a serious chat.
"It is very odd to see you on this side of the Atlantic, Count," she remarked. "Tell me, what are you doing in this country,--besides taking the town by storm, that is?"
"I weell range my own self;--say you een Eengleesh 'arrange my own self'?"
"When it means you are going to marry, Count, it might be well to say that you are going to arrange yourself and derange somebody else. Is the lady Miss Endicott?"
"Eet ees Mees Endeecott. Ees she not good for me?"
"She is a thousand times too good for you, my dear fellow; but she is as poor as a church mouse."
"Ah, but her aunt, Mees Wentsteele, she geeve her one _dot_: two thousand hundred dollar. Eet weell be a meellion francs, ees eet not?"
"So you get a million francs for yourself, Count. It is more than I should have thought you worth."
"Oh, the title is worth something, but I could buy one a good deal cheaper. If I remember correctly I might have had yours for nothing, Count."
The Count did not look entirely pleased at this reminiscence, but he smiled, and again took refuge in a compliment.
"To one so _ravissante_ as madame all teettles are under her feet."
"I wish you would set up a school for compliments here in Boston, Count, and teach our men to say nice things. Really, a Boston man's compliments are like molasses candy, they are so home-made. But why don't you take the aunt instead of the niece? Miss Wentstile is worth half a million."