We are instantly put on our guard by the effeminate man who, as if to dispel our suspicions, says, “You know, homosexuals interest me very much psychologically and I must confess I have a number of good friends among them whom I would like to have you meet,” or takes an even bolder stand and says, “I am so amused by the rumors I have heard about myself that I have been tempted to give people really something to talk about by having my hair curled and my fingernails painted” (so that we know, in the first instance, that if the homosexuals have admitted him to their minds which he is investigating in the interest of his hobby, they have as well admitted him to their arms, and in the second that curling his hair and painting his nails are probably what he will shortly do, but not for the reason that he has prepared us). Just so, the confidence that Philip placed in Harry Morgan made the astute Countess suspect that he did not trust him at all, that he was jealous of those New York days and New York evenings to which the young millionaire so casually referred, calling upon Hopestill to confirm the name of a restaurant or of a mutual friend.

“Pretend you’re a European, darling! I love you! Don’t be shocked! Tell me, dear angel, if you don’t agree with this evil-minded old woman that Philip McAllister has some reason—don’t interrupt, Sonia—for being disappointed in that lovely bride of his? And . . . Come sit beside me. I don’t know where that Filipino child of mine is. And that he does not really adore her so much as he appears?”

“I don’t follow you, Countess,” I said nervously.

My friend pouted and then laughed. “Of course you don’t follow me, precious scamp, you’re a mile ahead of me.”

I was by no means averse to gossip but I did not enjoy it with the Countess who, for some reason unknown to me, was reined in by no inhibitions when she spoke to me although I was certain that she was discreet with others. She seemed to be under the impression that my moral view had the same generous, continental latitude as hers. My disquietude, as I fumblingly put down my coffee cup, was transmitted to her and a small silence came between us, as precise as a picture hanging on a wall.

The Countess went on, more gently. “Oh, I have not been nice at all! But you and I, Sonia, observe things other people don’t. Don’t we now? Wouldn’t you agree with me that probably you and I are the only people, besides the principals, of course, who know that Mr. Morgan was Hope’s friend before her marriage?”

“Friend?” I repeated. “But of course they were friends.”