“It was not so good as she is, had none of the--what shall I say--_air
noble_ that she has.” He screwed up his eyes as if projecting his
vision not only through Miss Bliss, but through all intervening
objects to a realm of pure criticism. “It has a bourgeois quality, no
distinction, no imagination, and she--” Words were inadequate and he
finished the sentence with a shrug.
Miss Bliss leaned forward and poked the fire, once more revealing the
golden string. The count looked at it with a faint arrested interest. I
was depressed, but conventions are instinctive, and I said sternly:
“Miss Bliss, let the count poke the fire.”
The count poked and Miss Bliss slipped to the floor, and sitting
cross-legged, comfortably warmed her back.
The count was gone when Mrs. Bushey entered. Mrs. Bushey says she
understands music even as she does physical culture.
“It was a frost,” she explained, dropping on the end of the sofa.
“I know that,” I answered, “the paper this morning said the thermometer
was twenty-two degrees.”
“Not that kind of a frost, a theatrical frost for her. She hasn’t got
the quality.”
“No thrill,” murmured Miss Bliss, and no men being present, stretched
out her feet and legs in worn slippers and threadbare stockings to the
blaze.