Tall, straight, limber, Jean’s form was superb. Her beautiful features, her fearless grey eyes, her magnificent golden hair and her exquisite skin were straight from Malory. Her mouth was proud. Her charm of manner was notable. Jean had a quick brain and a gay heart. She made a wonderful waster, adorning even that sumptuous, flashing world in which she moved. That it was not her setting is rather painfully clear. If a fountain must run with wine, there are just as good-looking liquors as old Falernian. Oliver Pauncefote looked what in fact he was—a soldier taking his ease. Tall, fair, fresh-faced, his was a lazy air. The man might well have been handsome; but Achilles with his feet up would not have made an Iliad. The strength was there in his face, but it was always off duty. An easy smile sat on his fine mouth; his clear eyes were half veiled; he spoke with a drawl. His manners were delightful. At his worst, he was easy-going; at his best, debonair. And that was a pity. A head that can carry a casque should not wear nothing but a bycocket. Captain and Mrs. Pauncefote lived soft. Finding their income insufficient, they spent their capital freely, proposing by happy speculation to replenish their hoard. The deal which Oliver was just completing was, of course, a coup phenomenal. To do him justice, it would not have been so phenomenal if it had not been so daring. Fortunes are not made at chuck-farthing. They are won by pitching fortunes upon the table. So also are they lost. When, seated at breakfast in their _salon_ some seven hours after Jean had burst into tears, Oliver read in the paper that _Plaisir et Cie_, Bankers, had suspended payment, he put a hand to his head. . . . For a full minute he sat, staring. . . . Then the door was opened, and Jean came into the room. Oliver laid down the paper and buttered some bread. “Well, old lady,” he said, “what’s the programme to-day?” “Lunch with the Bostocks,” said Jean, selecting a roll. “Then to Molyneux with Maisie. Dinner with Pat Lafone. It’s his birthday, he says, and he swears we’ll light such a candle——” “Let’s call it off,” said Pauncefote, “an’ keep the day to ourselves.” Jean lifted her beautiful head. “For Heaven’s sake—why?” “Oh, I don’t know,” said her husband. “Only—only it’s our weddin’-day”—Jean frowned—“and I think perhaps we might mark it. You know. Just draw in our horns.” “‘In loving memory’?” “If you like,” said Pauncefote. “Let’s—let’s go for a walk in the _Bois_.” Jean gave a little shriek of laughter. “My dear Oliver,” she said, “your efforts to play the mug are too good to be true. Now eat your bread-and-butter like a good little boy and tell me what won the Church Congress—I mean, the Two Thousand. Where was Fire Guard?” “Don’t know,” said her husband shortly. “But I mean what I say. I want to talk things over.” “Well, I don’t,” said Jean. “I had my bust last night—my final bust. The incident’s closed. Besides, in the cold light of day——”