An Italian man-servant opened the door and took his card, and a few moments later he was ushered into the handsome salon, resplendent with gilt and statuary, where Mariette Lepage had evidently been dozing. The jalousies of the three long windows were closed; the room, perfumed by great bowls of violets, was delightfully cool; and the softly-tempered light pleasant and restful after the white glare outside. "This is an unexpected pleasure," Mariette exclaimed in English, rising to allow her hand to linger for an instant in his, then sinking back with a slight yawn upon her silken couch. In the half-light, as she reclined in graceful abandon upon the divan, her head thrown back upon a great cushion of rose silk, she looked much younger than she really was. George had guessed her age at thirty-five when she had called at his hotel, but in that dimly-lit room, with her veil removed and attired in a thin light-coloured gown she looked quite ten years younger, and certainly her face was eminently handsome. She stretched out her tiny foot, neat in its silk stocking and patent leather shoe, with an air of coquetry, and in doing so displayed either by accident or design that _soupcon_ of _lingerie_ which is no indiscretion in a Frenchwoman. He had taken a seat near her, and was apologising for calling during her siesta. "No, no," she exclaimed, with a light laugh. "I am extremely glad you've come. I retire so late at night that I generally find an afternoon doze beneficial. We women suffer from nerves and other such things of which you men know nothing." "Fortunately for us," he observed. "But then we are liable to a malady of the heart of far greater severity than that to which your sex is subject. Women's hearts are seldom broken; men's often are. A woman can forget as easily as a child forgets; but the remembrance of a face, of a voice, of a pair of eyes, to him brighter and clearer than all others, is impressed indelibly upon a man's memory. Every woman from the moment she enters her teens is, I regret to say, a coquette at heart. In the game of love the chances are all against the man." "Why are you so pessimistic?" she asked, raising herself upon her elbow and looking at him amused. "All women are not heartless. Some there are who remember, and although evil and vicious themselves, are self-denying towards others." "Yes," he answered. "A few--a very few." "Of course you must be forgiven for speaking thus," she said, in a soft, pleasant tone. "Your choice of a woman has been an exceedingly unhappy one." "Why?" he exclaimed, with quick suspicion. "What allegation do you make against Liane?" "I make no allegation, whatever, m'sieur," she answered, with a smile. "It was not in that sense my words were intended. I meant to convey that your love has only brought unhappiness to you both."