Blanka took her guest's hat and shawl, and then proceeded to start a fire on the hearth.

The fair Cyrene meanwhile caught up her mandolin and began to sing one of Alfred de Musset's songs, full of the warmth and glow of the sunny South.

Presently the hostess invited her guest to take tea with her, and asked her at the same time her baptismal name.
The marchioness laughed.

"Haven't you heard it often enough?
They call me 'Cyrene.'" "But that isn't your real name," objected Blanka.

"You were not christened 'Cyrene.'" "I use it for my name, however, and no one but my father confessor calls me by my real name, so that now I never hear it without thinking that I must fall on my knees and repeat a dozen paternosters in penance.
Besides, my name doesn't suit me at all.