He was in Madame's thoughts.

It struck him, however, that the notes had a defiant ring.
"Lights!" called Madame, rising from the stool.
Immediately a servant entered with candles and retired.

Maurice, when his eyes had grown accustomed to the lights, scanned the three faces.
Madame's was radiant.

Fitzgerald's was a mixture--a comical mixture--of content and enjoyment, but the countess's was as colorless as the wax in the candlesticks.

He asked himself what other task she had to perform that she should take so long to recover her roses.