sitting in the green library with Felicity, markedly abstaining
from the newspapers surrounding him, and reading over an old catalogue.
He was a fair, delicate-looking young man of twenty-eight years the
amiability of whose expression seemed accentuated by the upward turning
of his minute blonde moustache. He had deep blue eyes, rather far apart,
regular features, and a full, very high forehead, on which the fair hair
was already growing scanty. Tall and slight, he had a rather casual,
boyish air, and beautiful but useful-looking white hands, the hands of
the artist. His voice and manner had the soft unobtrusive gentleness
that comes to those whose ancestors for long years have dared and
commanded. In time, when there's nothing more to fight for, the dash
naturally dies out.

"My dear boy, why Fulham?" said Felicity, who was sitting at her
writing-table not answering letters.

"About that bit of china."

"We don't want any more china, dear."

"It isn't a question of what we want! It is a question of what it would
be a crime to miss. Old Staffordshire going for nothing! Really,
Felicity!"

Felicity gave up the point. "I see.... How long are you going to stay in
London?" she said.

"Well, I was just thinking.... You know, I don't care much about the
season."

"You haven't had ten days of it," his wife answered. "Don't you think it
looks rather odd always letting me go to dances and things alone?"

"No. Why odd? You like them. I don't."

She looked rather impatient. "Has it ever struck you that I'm--rather
young--and not absolutely hideous?"

"Yes, very often," he said smiling. "Don't I show how it strikes me?
Why?"

"It's so difficult to say. Don't you see; people try to flirt with me,
and that sort of thing."

"Oh yes, they would. Naturally."

"Sometimes," said Felicity, darting a look at him like a needle, "I
shouldn't be surprised if people fell in love with me. So there!"

"You couldn't be less surprised than I should," said her husband, rather
proudly. "Shows their good taste."

"Well, for instance--you know Bertie Wilton, don't you?"

"Oh yes, I think I've seen him. A boy who rattles about in a staring red
motor-car. How any one on earth can stand those things when they can
have horses----"

"That's not the point, Chetwode. I think Bertie Wilton is really in love
with me. I really do."

Chetwode tried to look interested. "Is he though?"

"Well, I don't like it," she said pettishly.

"The