“Honour to whom honour is due,” said Mrs. Festival. “I’m not gregarious. I thought I was. I thought I would like a confidant—someone to cry my thoughts to without having to think what I said, someone who’ld give me my towel and—and generally understand.” “In fact, a blinkin’ soul-mate?” “And towel-horse combined. Exactly. Well, _I was wrong_.” “But you bleated,” protested Giles. “I heard you. You advertised for a soul-mate, and I applied for the place. A waster by nature, I presently let you down, but that’s irrelevant.” “It’s also untrue,” said his wife. “And you know it. You never let anyone down. Never mind. Gill, I’m afraid I married in much the same frame of mind as I try a new scent.” The other started. “I’ve always used _Baladeuse_, and always shall. But now and again I go mad and waste your substance on a bottle of something else. Then, when I’ve used it twice, I give it to Beatrice.” Considerably taken by surprise, her husband regarded his ash-tray with an offensive stare. Presently he sighed. “At least,” he murmured, “I escaped that odious depository. . . .” Katharine began to shake with laughter. “I see. Not to put too fine an edge upon it, you married out of pure curiosity. In a mad moment you ventured out of spinsterhood just to see what coverture was like. And I was under the impression that—— Never mind. It’s a pretty simile. Perfume. I suppose I was a sixpenny flask of _’Ard an’ Bright_. . . . Oh, _très intéressant_.” Releasing the ash-tray, he shifted his gaze to the ceiling and, drawing at his cigarette, meditatively expelled the smoke. “Supposing,” he added slowly, “supposing—to preserve the parable—you had another—er—_lapsus cordis_ . . . got momentarily sick of _Baladeuse_ and, forgetful of jolly old _’Ard an’ Bright_, felt impelled to try _What are the Wild Oats Saying_, or some other frankincense?” Katharine shot her husband a lightning glance. Then she raised her sweet eyebrows. “And you?” she said. “Supposing you hear someone bleating . . . and . . . and the flocking instinct once more asserts itself?” Deliberately, Giles extinguished his cigarette. “I shall put up a fight,” he said coolly, “the deuce of a fight. I shall stick in my elegant toes and put up a fight.” Katharine leaned forward. “And I,” she said slowly, with a dazzling smile, “shall do precisely the same.” For a moment the two looked into each other’s eyes. Then— “I—I hope you’ll win,” said Giles uneasily. “I mean—I should like to think that _’Ard an’ Bright_ was the only serious rival _Baladeuse_ ever had. Besides . . . I’m sure _I_ shall win,” he added confidently. “You can bet your little boots about that. You know. The patent-leather ones I used to pull off after breakfast.” Katharine rose to her feet. “I’m going,” she said, “to the library. Remember me to the port and then follow me in.” Her husband stepped to the door and held it open. As she was passing, she stopped and laid a hand upon his arm. “Promise me one thing, Gill.”