‘We spoke about class distinctions. I believe you called me a Conservative. Certainly you told me you were the most out-and-out demagogue in England. You were all for fraternity, Lord Rex. “Gardener Adam and his wife, and that sort of thing.” Labour was the universal purchase-money. Dukes and earls had best go back to the place from whence they came. Well--you meant none of this.’ Lord Rex winced. ‘Unfair on a fellow,’ he observed, ‘to be thus taken au pied de la lettre, and----’ ‘You must speak in English,’ cried Dinah. ‘I have not French enough to understand your meaning.’ ‘My dear Mrs. Arbuthnot! A man may hold theories,--visions of an impracticable Utopia, don’t you know ... charming--ahem! to air in exquisite company; impossible to carry out in this rough chaos of a world we live in.’ Dinah stopped for a minute or more, sedately reflecting, before she answered. ‘I think I understand. Socialistic opinions, if one is trying to make talk for a rather stupid woman at a picnic, may be well enough, especially if the rather stupid woman does not belong to one’s own station.’ ‘Mrs. Arbuthnot! I protest----’ ‘The gardener Adam, of reality, is a snob. A wretch, bound, of course, to lend his carriage to her grace, in distress, so long as he has not the impertinence to talk of duchesses or linch-pins during the remainder of his days. I have gained a new bit of wisdom, Lord Rex Basire. It is not likely I shall meet you in England. If I do, I shall remember what you said to our poor botanist--“We are not on the St. Gothard now.” You might say, massacring me through a cruel double eye-glass, “We are not in Guernsey now.” Good-night, my lord.’ She touched his hand. She passed away out of his life with a smile. Her step was light. The rose-tints of the sky lent a fictitious brilliancy to her face. Wonderful how that poor young woman, Mrs. Arbuthnot, kept up her spirits! So opined feminine judges, looking mercifully down upon events from the drawing-room windows of the hotel. And under the sad circumstances--the husband’s indifference to her growing hourly more pointed--to be carried away like a girl by this foolish little lord’s attention! But that is the nature of these pink-and-white, yellow-haired marionettes. The temperament, my dear madam, is not one that feels or sorrows. Dinah Arbuthnot walked quietly to her room, then rang the bell, and told the waiting-maid that she would require nothing further, and that no one need sit up for Mr. Arbuthnot. She changed her dress for a loose wrapper, rested herself during some minutes, and with her face hidden between her hands, strove to realise the altered condition of things which lay before her.