And then I took her in my arms and kissed her, which may seem rather premature, but there had been that in the conversation which had led up to the situation. Of course, Sibella would not have been a woman had she not declared that she would never forget that she was now Lionel’s wife, and that on a former occasion she must have been mad. She repeated that she always knew I was wicked, and that I had gained an ascendancy over her. She then proceeded to tell me that I was in love with Lady Pebworth, with whom she had lately had a coolness. That lady evidently thought that she had purchased by her introductions a perpetual right to the subservience of Sibella and her husband. She was now experiencing the utter callousness of Sibella’s disposition towards her own sex, a callousness she was exceedingly clever at masking till she had obtained what she wanted. It was difficult to say where the weak point in Sibella’s armour came in. She was, of course, vain, but as a rule her vanity was not allowed to interfere with her interests. She was dominated to a great extent by looks. It was this passion for beautiful people that had made it a perfectly safe proceeding to introduce Sir Anthony Cross to her. I was sure that no man so destitute of pretensions to physical charm could ever win her suffrages. In fact, I was pleased to know that he was always to be seen near her, for his case was hopeless. “Perhaps it is a very good thing we did not marry, Sibella. A strict barrier should always be preserved between the official and the sentimental roles.” “My dear Israel, Lionel is much more sentimental than you are.” “Women are amazingly quick. Perhaps sentiment is the wrong word; I should have said romantic.” “What is the difference?” “There is all the difference. The sentimentalist has no sense of humour. The romanticist generally has too much. A romanticist may possess the salt of cynicism; a sentimentalist seldom.” Sibella had something of an intellect, and I think, perhaps, that was also a weak point, for inasmuch as it was a poorly developed sort of affair it was easily dazzled, and she would at the merest flicker from an opposing mind credit it with much that it did not possess. I had led the conversation away from Lady Pebworth, but she brought it back again, and flattered me by insisting on learning from my own lips that I had no affection for the lady. Fortunately she only knew of Miss Gascoyne’s existence in a vague sort of way. “What would you do, Sibella, if I married?” “Forbid it.” “You think that would be effective?” “If it were not I should never speak to you again.” “Ah, unfortunately it is forbidden to a discretion like yours to take such extreme measures.” “Why?” “Lionel would want to know why we had quarrelled.” How she would act when it came to telling her that I was engaged to Miss Gascoyne—which I hoped would shortly be the case—I could not say. Miss Gascoyne’s extreme beauty and distinction would not help the matter.