“No; but the missus is,” said Beaufort, nodding carelessly to the young man.

“But I thought her so kind. She came herself to invite me. Granny says I must certainly go.”

“Granny would, of course. And I say it’s a shame you’re going to miss the little oyster supper I’d planned for you at Delmonico’s next Sunday, with Campanini and Scalchi and a lot of jolly people.”

She looked doubtfully from the banker to Archer.

“Ah—that does tempt me! Except the other evening at Mrs. Struthers’s I’ve not met a single artist since I’ve been here.”

“What kind of artists? I know one or two painters, very good fellows, that I could bring to see you if you’d allow me,” said Archer boldly.

“Painters? Are there painters in New York?” asked Beaufort, in a tone implying that there could be none since he did not buy their pictures; and Madame Olenska said to Archer, with her grave smile: “That would be charming. But I was really thinking of dramatic artists, singers, actors, musicians. My husband’s house was always full of them.”

She said the words “my husband” as if no sinister associations were connected with them, and in a tone that seemed almost to sigh over the lost delights of her married life. Archer looked at her perplexedly, wondering if it were lightness or dissimulation that enabled her to touch so easily on the past at the very moment when she was risking her reputation in order to break with it.

“I do think,” she went on, addressing both men, that the imprévu adds to one’s enjoyment. It’s perhaps a mistake to see the same people every day.”

“It’s confoundedly dull, anyhow; New York is dying of dullness,” Beaufort grumbled. “And when I try to liven it up for you, you go back on me. Come—think better of it! Sunday is your last chance, for Campanini leaves next week for Baltimore and Philadelphia; and I’ve a private room, and a Steinway, and they’ll sing all night for me.”

“How delicious! May I think it over, and write to you tomorrow morning?”

She spoke amiably, yet with the least hint of dismissal in her voice. Beaufort evidently felt it, and being unused to dismissals, stood staring at her with an obstinate line between his eyes.

“Why not now?”

“It’s too serious a question to decide at this late hour.”

“Do you call it late?”

She returned his glance coolly. “Yes; because I have still to talk business with Mr. Archer for a little while.”

“Ah,” Beaufort snapped. There was no appeal from her tone, and with a slight shrug he recovered his composure, took her hand, which he kissed with a practised air, and calling out from the threshold: “I say, Newland, if you can persuade the Countess to stop in town of course you’re included in the supper,” left the room with his heavy important step.

For a moment Archer fancied that Mr. Letterblair must have told her of his coming; but the irrelevance of her next remark made him change his mind.

“You know painters, then? You live in their milieu?” she asked, her eyes full of interest.