“Don’t!” cried Jean sharply. “Don’t!” The man started at her tone, and their eyes met in the glass. “Don’t!” she repeated fiercely. “I can’t bear it. Once—yes. A year ago. . . . But now it’s too late. Besides, I made you say it. I dragged the words out of your mouth: and so they’re worthless. Worse. They’re a travesty—that’s how they talked in Eden. But we’re in a song-and-dance show—don’t forget that. We’re under contract to Baal. Of course you _can_ ‘pot’ Eden, but I—I couldn’t play Eve. I know I don’t care, but I’m just—just soppy enough not—not to want to pretend.” Her voice broke there, but she plugged the hole with a laugh. “And there’s some real sob-stuff for you. Never mind. You won’t hear it again. It’s the swan-song of my mughood—the last flare-up of the lamp of a foolish virgin, who thought—thought . . .” She clapped her hands to her face and burst into tears. Oliver flashed to her side, fell upon one knee and slid an arm round her waist. She shook him off—savagely. * * * * * Jean Pauncefote might have been a great lady. Had she lived seven centuries ago, she would certainly have been fought for, probably have been chosen Queen of Beauty and Love at several tournaments and possibly have made history as, in the absence of her lord, a chatelaine _sans peur et sans reproche_. But Fate was against her. In October 1918 she was still at school. Three months later she had left Philadelphia for ever and was dancing at London night-clubs five nights of the week. Such a _début_ at such a moment into such a world would have demoralized nine girls out of ten. The fair American was not demoralized: but she would not have been human if she had even attempted to swim against the stream. After all, if we may believe Sir Toby Belch, Feste, the Clown, had ‘a contagious breath.’ _What is love? ’tis not hereafter;_ _Present mirth hath present laughter;_ _What’s to come is still unsure. . . ._ She had no money: yet might, I think, have married anyone. But rank and riches to Jean meant nothing at all. She married Oliver Pauncefote because she liked the man, found him a gentleman, firmly believed that he would not let her down. Herein she was right. Pauncefote had been through the War and was out to forget. With eighty thousand pounds behind him, he began to forget very well. Feste’s doctrine suited him down to the ground. _In delay there lies no plenty;_ _Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty,_ _Youth’s a stuff will not endure._ But he never forgot that he was a gentleman. The two were lovely and pleasant in their lives.