“Are you going to Berthe’s tonight?”

“Yes. Are you?”

She shook her head. “I’m going dancing.”

I did not look forward to the evening. At the bottom of the Countess’ invitation, a square of mellow vellum headed by a coat of arms instead of an address, the calligraphy of which was so elegant that the only decipherable symbols were the date and the hour (one could not possibly tell whether the guest of honor was to be a Belgian brain surgeon, an Italian poet, a Danish architect, or a Canadian bishop), she had written—this in a legible hand—“Nicholas Doman, charming, from Budapest, will call for you.” I was tired of the young foreigners she “dug up” for me. Their difficulty with the language discouraged and then annoyed me as did the Weltschmerz that was a property common to all their eyes. Or, if they could speak well, I was irritated by another quality in them, one which I could not properly define: it was a staleness or a frustrated sensuality or a womanly tenderness, or perhaps all three that sounded in their voices, as if they were visiting an invalid surrounded by flowers that had withered but had not yet lost their fragrance. In the cushiony cocktail lounge of the Lincolnshire, over the yellow, arid popcorn and the dubonnet, rich, beautiful Gerhardt Preis, whom I had met by chance in the Public Gardens, confided one afternoon in me that his ambitions were to live forever as a celibate (because he could not have Berthe von Happel) in a hotel in Paris and to write a book (he would give up music, inseparable from her) which would be the modern counter-part of Amiel’s Journal. From his homeless, continental Jewish face emanated the odor of pomade. In the vestibule of Miss Pride’s house, he kissed my hand and then withdrew into the dusk, stealing on his suave feet past Louisburg Square under the spiritless rain that had begun to fall. I was certain that Nicholas Doman from Budapest would not be as charming as the Countess testified. He would very likely be addicted, as most of her hangers-on were, to telling anecdotes in French.

I told Hopestill my dilemma. “Oh, well,” she said, “you won’t have to be stuck with him the whole evening. That’s the beautiful thing about Berthe’s parties, you can take your pick after dinner. Anyhow Philip will be there.”

“Will he? After dinner you mean?” I said.

“Yes. Why, Sonie, you’re blushing!”

I was not blushing. I had been too taken up with a plan to escape the Hungarian to care whether Philip came, but her accusation immediately elevated the temperature of my skin and my eyes began to smart.

“If you say so, I suppose I am,” I said.

She laughed. “Why don’t you skip dinner and go afterwards with him and avoid the Hungarian altogether?”

“I couldn’t do that. But I’m very glad he’s coming. At least he speaks English.”