than ever that he had married her.

'She's very faithful,' he found himself saying three minutes later to
the lady on his right. He added that he meant Mrs. Capadose.

'Ah, you know her then?'

'I knew her once upon a time--when I was living abroad.'

'Why then were you asking me about her husband?'

'Precisely for that reason. She married after that--I didn't even know
her present name.'

'How then do you know it now?'

'This gentleman has just told me--he appears to know.'

'I didn't know he knew anything,' said the lady, glancing forward.

'I don't think he knows anything but that.'

'Then you have found out for yourself that she is faithful. What do you
mean by that?'

'Ah, you mustn't question me--I want to question you,' Lyon said. 'How
do you all like her here?'

'You ask too much! I can only speak for myself. I think she's hard.'

'That's only because she's honest and straightforward.'

'Do you mean I like people in proportion as they deceive?'

'I think we all do, so long as we don't find them out,' Lyon said. 'And
then there's something in her face--a sort of Roman type, in spite of
her having such an English eye. In fact she's English down to the
ground; but her complexion, her low forehead and that beautiful close
little wave in her dark hair make her look like a glorified
_contadina_.'

'Yes, and she always sticks pins and daggers into her head, to increase
that effect. I must say I like her husband better: he is so clever.'

'Well, when I knew her there was no comparison that could injure her.
She was altogether the most delightful thing in Munich.'

'In Munich?'

'Her people lived there; they were not rich--in pursuit of economy in
fact, and Munich was very cheap. Her father was the younger son of some
noble house; he had married a second time and had a lot of little mouths
to feed. She was the child of the first wife and she didn't like her
stepmother, but she was charming to her little brothers and sisters. I
once made a sketch of her as Werther's Charlotte, cutting bread and
butter while they clustered all round her. All the artists in the place
were in love with her but she wouldn't look at 'the likes' of us. She
was too proud--I grant you that; but she wasn't stuck up nor young
ladyish; she was simple and frank and kind about it. She used to remind
me of Thackeray's Ethel Newcome. She told me she must marry well: it was
the one thing she could do for her family. I suppose you w