He was a heavy but honest Briton, who idolised his wife, his dinner, and the British Constitution. As neither the opera nor Clytie came within this area of adoration, he treated them with a polite though somewhat embarrassed indifference. Still he acquitted himself of his charge satisfactorily and entertained Clytie during the _entr'acte_. After a tour round the house he found a seat for her in the Salle des Pas Perdus and talked with solemn fitfulness. Then it occurred to him that it was oppressive indoors and he took her out upon the terrace. Clytie did not wish to stay there long--only for a moment to get a breath of fresh air. She remained for a little leaning on the broad balustrade and looking at the scene in front of her--the broad _place_ below with the continuous passing to and fro of vehicles crossing each other in all directions, the Café de la Paix on the right with its crowded tables far out on the pavement and trayladen waiters hurrying between them, the glittering vista of lights in the Avenue de l'Opera, the duller line of lamps in the Rue de la Paix with the Vendôme column towering high in the dim moonlight. It was so instinct with gaiety and movement and the brightness of life that a little thrill of its gladness passed through her, ending in a strange kind of sob that filled her throat. She took her companion's arm, and went across through the stream of loungers back into the heavy air of the Salle des Pas Perdus. Meanwhile Thornton and Mrs. Clavering had established themselves in a corner at the end of the terrace. “It seems like old times--on the veranda--at a regimental dance,” she said. “At least that is what you were going to say, I suppose. I never yet met an old admirer but what he made some remark of the kind. So I have saved you from the commonplace.” “I was meditating some politeness of the sort,” replied Thornton carelessly. “I thought you would expect it.” “I hope you will always have the same delicate consideration for others, Mr. Hammerdyke. How long are you going to be good and domestic?” “Always, I suppose. I am going to run politics and that sort of show.” Mrs. Clavering laughed lightly. “Ha! When I see you at it I'll believe it--unless you have changed extraordinarily since I last knew you. And you don't look much changed. Perhaps matrimony will work the miracle. Ha! ha! Pardon my laughing, but it seems so ridiculous to see you, of all people, married.” “I suppose I have human attributes somewhere about me,” he said. “Too vastly human, my poor friend; that is where the danger lies. To err is human, you know. I hope your wife will do the divine part of the business, as women generally do, and forgive. By the way, I have not made you my compliment, as they say in this country. I think your wife simply perfect.” “We agree there for once,” replied Thornton drily.