quence? Oh,
Emile!" And she laughed.

"Hermione--your food! You are not eating anything!" said Delarey, gently,
pointing to her plate. "And it's all getting cold."

"Thank you, Maurice."

She began to eat at once with an air of happy submission, which made
Artois understand a good deal about her feeling for Delarey.

"The heart will always rule the head, I dare say, in this world where the
majority will always be thoughtless," said Artois. "But the greatest
jealousy, the jealousy which is most difficult to resist and to govern,
is that in which both heart and brain are concerned. That is, indeed, a
full-fledged monster."

Artois generally spoke with a good deal of authority, often without
meaning to do so. He thought so clearly, knew so exactly what he was
thinking and what he meant, that he felt very safe in conversation, and
from this sense of safety sprang his air of masterfulness. It was an air
that was always impressive, but to-night it specially struck Hermione.
Now she laid down her knife and fork once more, to Delarey's half-amused
despair, and exclaimed:

"I shall never forget the way you said that. Even if it were nonsense one
would have to believe it for the moment, and of course it's dreadfully
true. Intellect and heart suffering in combination must be far more
terrible than the one suffering without the other. No, Maurice, I've
really finished. I don't want any more. Let's have our coffee."

"The Turkish coffee," said Artois, with a smile. "Do you like Turkish
coffee, Monsieur Delarey?"

"Yes, monsieur. Hermione has taught me to."

"Ah!"

"At first it seemed to me too full of grounds," he explained.

"Perhaps a taste for it must be an acquired one among Europeans. Do we
have it here?"

"No, no," said Hermione, "Caminiti has taken my advice, and now there's a
charming smoke-room behind this. Come along."

She got up and led the way out. The two men followed her, Artois coming
last. He noticed now more definitely the very great contrast between
Hermione and her future husband. Delarey, when in movement, looked more
than ever like a Mercury. His footstep was light and elastic, and his
whole body seemed to breathe out a gay activity, a fulness of the joy of
life. Again Artois thought of Sicilian boys dancing the tarantella, and
when they were in the small smoke-room, which Caminiti had fitted up in
what he believed to be Oriental style, and which, though scarcely
accurate, was quite cosey, he w