As Miss Page rose and stretched out her hand, he stooped and kissed it with the graceful ease of manner natural to a Frenchman. Mrs. Carfax felt quite embarrassed. “So foreign,” she thought; the phrase expressing unconscious disapprobation. “Glad _we_ haven’t those monkey tricks!” was her husband’s half-formed mental exclamation. Mrs. Dakin’s heart gave a curious little flutter for which she could not account, except that she liked the manners of Frenchmen, and was for the moment acutely conscious of the dulness of life. To her husband, the action suddenly recalled the days of Madame de Pompadour. He glanced at the fan he still held, and his mind wandered to a book of that lady’s period which he had long coveted, and had hitherto been unable to obtain. Absorbed in reverie, he missed Miss Page’s formal introduction, and was only recalled to the present day by the general movement following the announcement that dinner was served. The dining-room at Fairholme Court, in the older part of the house, was a long, low room with casement windows, and carved beams supporting the ceiling. In its midst the table sparkled with glass and silver, arranged with studied care between the shaded candles in sconces of Sheffield plate, and the crystal bowls of roses. It had the look of something exquisite, something in fact which belonged to Miss Page, and was marked with her individuality. Mrs. Dakin made anxious notes. Her dinner-table never looked a work of art, and in the intervals of her study of, and speculations concerning Monsieur Fontenelle, she wondered why. Several times her glance wandered to Miss Page, whose eyes were bright, and whose faint pink colour was rather deeper than usual. Did the Frenchman she wondered, represent Miss Page’s romance? It was strange how little one knew about Miss Page. Nothing, in fact. Mrs. Dakin realized the fact for the first time with a little shock of surprise. But then one never expected Miss Page to talk about her own affairs. Quite naturally, inevitably as it seemed, one went to Miss Page for advice, for sympathy, for encouragement about one’s self. But this man must belong to the past life of her hostess, whatever it had been--something charming, something gentle, since Miss Page had lived it. Of course she had been loved. She was too pretty not to have been loved. Had this man loved her perhaps? If so, why had they not married? Mrs. Dakin roused herself, and began to pay attention to the conversation to which, so far, she had only contributed mechanical, unheeding remarks. Indefinitely she felt that it was on a higher level than usual; the sort of conversation to which Dymfield was unaccustomed. The Frenchman talked with the vivacity, the wealth of phrase and imagery common to his race, and Miss Page talked too, eagerly, fluently, leaning a little forward, as though enjoying a much-loved rarely indulged delight.