When he smiled he showed, though not obtrusively, a sparkle of white and even teeth. When Lady Flamington admired the beauty of his hands she was within the right. For strength and suppleness they would be hard to beat, and for whiteness also. This then, in short, was the figure of Camille Barringcourt, come to dispense the charity of his friend of the past; come to settle in Marble House, of Greensward Avenue. Lady Flamington, some dozen houses off, persuaded her first and only husband to call there, soon after the arrival. He did so, hoping to see the fine black horses she had spoken of. Horseflesh was his hobby. He saw the gentleman, but nothing else in the way of interest, took a sudden fancy to him, and invited him over to dinner on Friday night. The invitation was as suddenly accepted. Sir James went home with some misgivings. He didn’t know whether his wife liked swarthy men; she was fastidious. His wife had no objection to them. She was delighted to welcome any of his friends, except turf acquaintances and bookmakers. On Friday night Mr. Barringcourt came. It was a little formal affair, one or two of the family circle and an intimate friend. The stranger sat beside his hostess for dinner, and they talked commonplaces. At last she turned to him with a pretty grace. “You have not yet demanded my thanks,” said she. “For what?” he asked. “You know for what.” “Your thanks would necessitate my apologies.” “I am surprised you never offered them.” “It was unnecessary.” “There I must confess to some curiosity. Do you remember you said to me, ‘You are not hurt.’” “Well?” said he, and smiled—a smile all the more charming as he bent his head to hers. “Well!” she retorted. “I was hurt; your horse frightened me. To be frightened is to be hurt. Can you dispute it?” “I never saw anyone stand pain better. Your face was a vision of—of—” “Of what?” she asked. “I do not understand your language very well, as yet. I shall improve in it; you must be patient. In a week or two I shall have found the word I need.” “And till then?” “Learn to be gracious to a poor speaker.” “Ah! But I do not intend to let you off so easily. After telling me I was not hurt, you next proceeded to say, ‘In that case you would have been deeply sorry’—you see my memory is good. Now, am I to understand that under the circumstances you felt no sorrow?” “Most certainly.” “Now we shall quarrel, unless you can explain yourself.” “Is it necessary?” “You shall discover how much so if you do not explain your meaning instantly.” “Then do not blame me if I sink still deeper into the mire. Under the circumstances, I was not sorry. I had been told on coming to this country I should find all the women forward—most of them ugly—the remainder plain. After three days’ looking round me I had come to the same conclusion. Suddenly by the merest chance my eyes lighted on you. Can you wonder I should feel no sorrow?” She frowned, then laughed, and looked at him.