Constance looked up at him with a little _moue_ of mingled despair and disdain. “With perhaps some romantic young Italian count for you to practise upon,” he said. Though the humour on his part was grim and derisive rather than sympathetic, her countenance cleared a little. “You know, papa,” she said, with a faintly complaining note, “that my Italian is very limited, and your counts and countesses speak no language but their own.” “Oh, who can tell? There may be some poor soldier on furlough who has French enough to---- By the way,” he added, sharply, “you must remember that they don’t understand flirtation with girls. If you were a married woman, or a young widow----” “You might pass me off as a young widow, papa. It would be amusing--or at least it _might_ be amusing. That is not a quality of the life here in general. What an odd thing it is that in England we always believe life to be so much more amusing abroad than at home.” “It is amusing--at Monte Carlo, perhaps.” Constance made another _moue_ at the name of Monte Carlo, from the sight of which she had not derived much pleasure. “I suppose,” she said, impartially, “what really amuses one is the kind of diversion one has been accustomed to, and to know everybody: chiefly to know everybody,” she added, after a pause. “With these views, to know nobody must be bad luck indeed!” “It is,” she said, with great candour; “that is why I have been so much with the Gaunts. One can’t live absolutely alone, you know, papa.” “I can--with considerable success,” he replied. “Ah, you! There are various things to account for it with you,” she said. He waited for a moment, as if to know what these various things were; then smiled to himself a little angrily at his daughter’s calm way of taking his disabilities for granted. It was not till some time after, when the dinner had advanced a stage, that he spoke again. Then he said, without any introduction, “I often wonder, Constance, when you find this life so dull as you do----” “Yes, very dull,” she said frankly,--“especially now, when all the people are going away.” “I wonder often,” he repeated, “my dear, why you stay; for there is nothing to recompense you for such a sacrifice. If it is for my sake, it is a pity, for I could really get on very well alone. We don’t see very much of each other; and till now, if you will pardon me for saying so, your mind has been taken up with a pursuit which--you could have carried on much better at home.” “You mean what you are pleased to call flirtation, papa? No, I could not have carried on that sort of thing at home. The conditions are altogether different. It _is_ difficult to account for my staying, when, clearly, you don’t consider me of any use, and don’t want me.” “I have never said that. Of course I am very glad to have you. It is in the bond, and therefore my right. I was regarding the question solely from your point of view.”