Fenwick will nurse the
grandchildren. I assure you--that's the fairy-tale way.'

Fenwick, who had flushed hotly, turned away and occupied himself in
replenishing his palette.

'Papa, of course, would say--Don't marry till you're a hundred and
two!' she resumed. 'But pray, don't listen to him.'

'I dare say he's right,' said Fenwick, returning to his easel, his
face bent over it.

'Not at all. People should have their youth together.'

'That's all very well. But many men don't know at twenty what they'll
want at thirty,' said Fenwick, painting fast.

Madame de Pastourelles laughed.

'The doctors say nowadays--it is papa's latest craze--that it doesn't
matter what you eat--or how little--if you only chew it properly. I
wonder if that applies to matrimony?'

'What's the chewing?'

'Manners,' she said, laughing--'that you think so little of. Whether
the food's agreeable or not, manners help it down.'

'Manners!--between husband and wife?' he said, scornfully.

'But certainly!' She lifted her beautiful brows for emphasis. 'Show me
any persons, please, that want them more!'

'The people I've been living among,' said Fenwick, with sharp
persistence, 'haven't got time for fussing about manners--in the sense
you mean. Life's too hard.'

A flush of bright colour sprang into her face. But she held her
ground.

'What do you suppose I mean? I don't meant court trains and
courtesies--I really don't.'

Fenwick was silent a moment, and then said--aggressively--' We can't
all of us have the same chances--as Mr. Welby, for instance.'

Madame de Pastourelles looked at him in astonishment. What an
extraordinary obsession! They seemed not to be able to escape from
Arthur Welby's name: yet it never cropped up without producing some
sign of irritation in this strange young man. Poor Arthur!--who had
always shown himself so ready to make friends, whenever the two
men met--as they often did--in the St. James's Square drawing-room.
Fenwick's antagonism, indeed, had been plain to her for some time.
It was natural, she supposed; he was clearly very sensitive on the
subject of his own humble origin and bringing-up; but she sighed that
a perverse youth should so mismanage his opportunities.

As to 'chances,' she declared rather tartly that they had nothing to
do with it. It was natural to Arthur Welby to make himself agreeable.

'Yes--like all other kinds of aristocrats,' said Fenwick, grimly.

Madame de Pastourelles frowned