“To hear you talk,” remarked Mrs. Hilary Musgrave--and, if any one is surprised to find me at her house, I can only say that Hilary, when he asked me to take a pot-luck, was quite ignorant of any ground of difference between his wife and myself, and that Mrs. Hilary could not very well eject me on my arrival in evening dress at ten minutes to eight--“to hear you talk one would think that there was no such thing as real love.” She paused. I smiled. “Now,” she continued, turning a fine, but scornful eye upon me, “I have never cared for any man in the world except my husband.” I smiled again. Poor Hilary looked very uncomfortable. With an apologetic air he began to stammer something about Parish Councils. I was not to be diverted by any such maneuver. It was impossible that he could really wish to talk on that subject. “Would a person who had never eaten anything but beef make a boast of it?” I asked. Hilary grinned covertly. Mrs. Hilary pulled the lamp nearer, and took up her embroidery. “Do you always work the same pattern?” said I. Hilary kicked me gently. Mrs. Hilary made no direct reply, but presently she began to talk. “I was just about Phyllis’s age--(by the way, little Miss Phyllis was there)--when I first saw Hilary. You remember, Hilary? At Bournemouth?” “Oh--er--was it Bournemouth?” said Hilary, with much carelessness. “I was on the pier,” pursued Mrs. Hilary. “I had a red frock on, I remember, and one of those big hats they wore that year. Hilary wore--” “Blue serge,” I interpolated, encouragingly. “Yes, blue serge,” said she fondly. “He had been yachting, and he was beautifully burnt. I was horribly burnt--wasn’t I, Hilary?” Hilary began to pat the dog. “Then we got to know one another.” “Stop a minute,” said I. “How did that happen?” Mrs. Hilary blushed. “Well, we were both always on the pier,” she explained. “And--and somehow Hilary got to know father, and--and father introduced him to me.” “I’m glad it was no worse,” said I. I was considering Miss Phyllis, who sat listening, open-eyed. “And then you know, father wasn’t always there; and once or twice we met on the cliff. Do you remember that morning, Hilary?” “What morning?” asked Hilary, patting the dog with immense assiduity. “Why, the morning I had my white serge on. I’d been bathing, and my hair was down to dry, and you said I looked like a mermaid.” “Do mermaids wear white serge?” I asked; but nobody took the least notice of me--quite properly. “And you told me such a lot about yourself; and then we found we were late for lunch.” “Yes,” said Hilary, suddenly forgetting the dog, “and your mother gave me an awful glance.” “Yes, and then you told me that you were very poor, but that you couldn’t help it; and you said you supposed I couldn’t possibly--” “Well, I didn’t think--!” “And I said you were a silly old thing; and then--” Mrs. Hilary stopped abruptly. “How lovely,” remarked little Miss Phyllis in a wistful voice.