e true as a statement of character.

It was, I believe, one of Leonora's priests--a man of the world--who
suggested that she should take him to Monte Carlo. He had the idea that
what Edward needed, in order to fit him for the society of Leonora,
was a touch of irresponsibility. For Edward, at that date, had much the
aspect of a prig. I mean that, if he played polo and was an excellent
dancer he did the one for the sake of keeping himself fit and the other
because it was a social duty to show himself at dances, and, when there,
to dance well. He did nothing for fun except what he considered to be
his work in life. As the priest saw it, this must for ever estrange him
from Leonora--not because Leonora set much store by the joy of life, but
because she was out of sympathy with Edward's work. On the other hand,
Leonora did like to have a good time, now and then, and, as the priest
saw it, if Edward could be got to like having a good time now and then,
too, there would be a bond of sympathy between them. It was a good idea,
but it worked out wrongly.

It worked out, in fact, in the mistress of the Grand Duke. In anyone
less sentimental than Edward that would not have mattered. With Edward
it was fatal. For, such was his honourable nature, that for him to enjoy
a woman's favours made him feel that she had a bond on him for life.
That was the way it worked out in practice. Psychologically it meant
that he could not have a mistress without falling violently in love with
her. He was a serious person--and in this particular case it was
very expensive. The mistress of the Grand Duke--a Spanish dancer of
passionate appearance--singled out Edward for her glances at a ball that
was held in their common hotel. Edward was tall, handsome, blond and
very wealthy as she understood--and Leonora went up to bed early. She
did not care for public dances, but she was relieved to see that Edward
appeared to be having a good time with several amiable girls. And that
was the end of Edward--for the Spanish dancer of passionate appearance
wanted one night of him for his beaux yeux. He took her into the dark
gardens and, remembering suddenly the girl of the Kilsyte case, he
kissed her. He kissed her passionately, violently, with a sudden
explosion of the passion that had been bridled all his life--for
Leonora was cold, or at any rate, well behaved. La Dolciquita liked this
reversion, and he passed the night in her bed.

When the palpitating creatu