Fru Thyregod was unwontedly serious. Julian had not yet realised to what extent Alexander Christopoulos had transferred his attentions to Eve. 'You know I am an unconventional woman; every one who knows me even a little can see that I am unconventional. But when I see a child, a nice child, like your cousin Eve, associated with a person like Kato, I think to myself, "Mabel, that is unbecoming."' She repeated,-- 'And yet I have been told that I was too unconventional. Yes, Carl has often reproached me, and my friends too. They say, "Mabel, you are too soft-hearted, and you are too unconventional." What do you think?' Julian ignored the personal. He said,-- 'I should not describe Eve as a "nice child."' 'No? Well, perhaps not. She is too ... too....' said Fru Thyregod, who, not having very many ideas of her own, liked to induce other people into supplying the missing adjective. 'She is too important,' Julian said gravely. The adjective in this case was unexpected. The Danish Excellency could only say,-- 'I think I know what you mean.' Julian, perfectly well aware that she did not, and caring nothing whether she did or no, but carelessly willing to illuminate himself further on the subject, pursued,-- 'Her frivolity is a mask. Her instincts alone are deep; _how_ deep, it frightens me to think. She is an artist, although, she may never produce art. She lives in a world of her own, with its own code of morals and values. The Eve that we all know is a sham, the product of her own pride and humour. She is laughing at us all. The Eve we know is entertaining, cynical, selfish, unscrupulous. The real Eve is ...' he paused, and brought out his words with a satisfied finality, 'a rebel and an idealist.' Then, glancing at his bewildered companion, he laughed and said,-- 'Don't believe a word I say, Fru Thyregod: Eve is nineteen, bent only upon enjoying her life to the full.' He knew, nevertheless, that he had swept together the loose wash of his thought into a concrete channel; and rejoiced. Fru Thyregod passed to a safer topic. She liked Julian, and understood only one form of excitement. 'You bring with you such a breath of freshness and originality,' she said, sighing, 'into our stale little world.' His newly-found good humour coaxed him into responsiveness. 'No world can surely ever be stale to you, Fru Thyregod; I always think of you as endowed with perpetual youth and gaiety.' 'Ah, Julian, you have perfect manners, to pay so charming a compliment to an old woman like me.' She neither thought her world stale or little, nor herself old, but pathos had often proved itself of value. 'Everybody knows, Fru Thyregod, that you are the life and soul of Herakleion.'