“Such a funny thing has happened,” he explained. “I’ve met an old friend, isn’t it strange?--he is here also on his honeymoon. The wife--I had not met before--you must know them. I have asked them to-morrow to tea.” Rose hid a moment’s dissatisfaction. “Are they French, Léon?” she asked a little nervously. “But of course, yes, Parisians of the most Parisian. Do you object to that?” he demanded impatiently. “Oh no!” she explained. “Only you know, Léon dear, my French is so bad!” He didn’t say it was adorable, which was what he usually said, though he never allowed her to attempt it when they were together. “It is time you learned French,” he said. “You can’t go on like this.” Then he looked at her with strange critical eyes. “You mustn’t wear that to-morrow,” he said coldly. “What have you got that you can wear? Madame Gérard--dresses.” Rose flushed. “Dearest,” she answered, “you know everything I’ve got--I thought you liked my clothes--they were all I could get in Rome.” “They are, nevertheless, extremely poor,” Léon pronounced with an air of finality. “I can’t think why you have no manner of putting on your clothes. There is no character in them, no charm, no unexpectedness. You dress as if you wanted shelter from the cold. Also none of your things have any seduction--they are as dull as boiled eggs. You cannot live in Paris and dress like an English country miss.” Rose felt as if she would die if Léon would not get that cold look out of his eyes. She lost her head under his impassive scrutiny. “Must I meet them?” she pleaded. “The Gérards, I mean. They don’t sound a bit my kind of people.” “But of course you must meet them!” said Léon angrily. “Naturally, since you are my wife--you are not my mistress, to be hidden away at such a time!” “Léon!” Rose exclaimed--his words struck at her like a whip lash. She turned quickly away and went into their room. She felt as if she could not stay any longer with Léon. In five minutes he rejoined her--not the strange, disagreeable man who had spoken to her like that, but her husband Léon. He was full of tender apologies. He couldn’t, he explained, think what had made him so nervous. Perhaps it was because Capri was so quiet, one resented anything that broke into it. But, after all after to-morrow they need see very little of the Gérards--Raoul wasn’t a great friend of his--he was, however, an interesting man--a well-known and very fine singer. He was a good deal thought of in Paris. Perhaps one day he would sing to them. Madame also was musical. She adored her husband’s voice. Rose said that would be lovely, and she asked Léon how long the Gérards’ honeymoon had lasted. Léon said longer than theirs--a fortnight or three weeks, perhaps. It was Madame’s idea, Capri. They had taken a villa so that Raoul could practise comfortably. Raoul would naturally have preferred Naples. “She is romantic, however, like you,” Léon murmured, kissing Rose’s soft white throat.