“You are singularly animated to-night,” said Hilary, contemplating him across the dinner-table; “yet, at the same time, singularly abstracted. You have the air of a man who is rolling something pleasant under his tongue, something sweet and secret: it might be a hope, it might be a recollection. Where have you passed the afternoon? You’ve been about some mischief, I’ll warrant. By Jove, you set me thinking. I’ll wager a penny you’ve been having a bit of rational conversation with that brown-haired woman.” “Her hair is red,” Ferdinand Augustus rejoined, with firmness. “And her conversation,” he added sadly, “is anything you please but rational. She spent her whole time picking flaws in the character of the King. She talked downright treason. She said he was the scandal of Europe and the frankest egotist in two hemispheres.” “Ah? She appears to have some instinct for the correct use of language,” commented Hilary. “All the same, I rather like her,” Ferdinand went on, “and I’m half inclined to undertake her conversion. She has a gorgeous figure—there’s something rich and voluptuous about it. And there are depths of promise in her eyes; there are worlds of humour and of passion. And she has a mouth—oh, of a fulness, of a softness, of a warmth! And a chin, and a throat, and hands! And then, her voice. There’s a mellowness yet a crispness, there’s a vibration, there’s a something in her voice that assures you of a golden temperament beneath it. In short, I’m half inclined to follow your advice, and go in for a love-adventure with her.” “Oh, but love-adventures—I have it on high authority—are damnable iterations,” objected Hilary. “That is very true; they are,” Ferdinand agreed. “But the life of man is woven of damnable iterations. Tell me of any single thing that isn’t a damnable iteration, and I’ll give you a quarter of my fortune. The day and the night, the seasons and the years, the fair weather and the foul, breakfast and luncheon and dinner—all are damnable iterations. If there’s any reality behind the doctrine of metempsychosis, death, too, is a damnable iteration. There’s no escaping damnable iterations: there’s nothing new under the sun. But as long as one is alive, one must do something. It’s sure to be something in its essence identical with something one has done before; but one must do something. Why not, then, a love-adventure with a woman that attracts you?” “Women are a pack of samenesses,” said Hilary despondently.