to which she
had rolled that part of the glove which covers the hand. Save for the
wedding-token her fingers were ringless. She had nothing about her
throat. But from shoulder to shoulder, from breast to girdle, was a
cuirass of gems, flecked with absinthe and oscillant with flame. It was
barbaric in splendor, Roman in beauty; it startled and captivated. And
in it Eden looked the personified spirit of Bysance, a dream that had
taken form. Her husband let his eyes have all their will of her. Even
the butler was dazzled.

During the progress of the meal the presence of that person and of his
underlings prevented any conversation of reportable interest. But while
the courses were being served Eden noticed that her husband was in an
unusually sprightly mood. He touched on one topic of the day, presently
on another, and left that for a third. To each he gave a new aspect. It
was as though he were tossing crystal balls. Now, when an educated man
is not a pedant he can in discoursing about nothing at all exert a very
palpable influence. Mr. Usselex talked like a philosopher who has seen
the world. To many a woman there is nothing more wearisome than the
conversation of a man who has nothing to desire and nothing to fear.
That man is usually her husband. But with Eden it was different. She
listened with the pleasure of a convalescent. She was just issuing from
the little nightmare of the afternoon, and as he spoke, now and then she
interrupted with some fancy of her own; but all the while deep down in
the fibres of her being she felt a smart of self-reproach that mingled
with exultation. Her suspicions had vanished. They had been born of the
dusk and creatures of it. And she looked down through the opals into her
heart and over at her husband and smiled.

The butler and his underlings had departed. The meal was done. Usselex
smiled too. He left his seat and went behind her. He drew her head back,
bent over, and kissed her on the lips; then mirroring his eyes in hers,
he kissed her again, drew a chair to her side, and took her hand in his.

"Look at me, Eden," he said. "I love your eyes. Speak to me. I love
your voice. They say that at twenty a man loves best. They are wrong.
Youth is inconstant. It is with age a man learns what love can be. Do
you not think I know? Look at me and tell me. Eden, joy frightens.
Sometimes I wonder that I had the courage to ask you to be my wife.
Sometimes I fear you think me too old. Sometimes I