He found her ladyship, in a frock all concentric whirls of crisp white ruffles, vigorously wielding a fan, and complaining of the heat. (Indeed, as Annunziata had predicted, it had grown markedly warmer.) "I shall fly away, if this continues; I shall fly straight to town, and set my house in order for the season. When do _you_ come?" she asked, smiling on him from her benign old eyes. "I don't come," answered John. "I rather like town in autumn and winter, when it's too dark to see its ugliness, but save me from it in the clear light of summer." "Fudge," said Lady Blanchemain. "London's the most beautiful capital in Europe--it's grandiose. And it's the only place where there are any people. "Yes," said John, "but, as at Nice and Homburg, too many of them are English. And there's a liberal scattering, I've heard, of Jews?" "Oh, Jews are all right--when they aren't Jewy," said Lady Blanchemain, with magnanimity. "I know some very nice ones. I was rather hoping you would be a feature of my Sunday afternoons." "I'm not a society man," said John. "I've no aptitude myself for patronizing or toadying, and I don't particularly enjoy being patronized or toadied to." "Is that the beginning and end of social life in England?" Lady Blanchemain inquired, delicately sarcastic. "As I have seen it, yes," asseverated John. "The beginning, end, and middle of social life in England, as in Crim-Tartary, is worship of the longest pigtail,--a fetichism sometimes grosser, sometimes subtler, sometimes deliberate, often unconscious and instinctive. Every one you meet is aware that his pigtail is either longer or shorter than yours, and accordingly, more or less subtly, grossly, unconsciously or deliberately, swaggers or bends the knee. It's a state of things I've tried in vain to find diverting." "It's a state of things you'll find prevailing pretty well in all places where the human species breeds," said Lady Blanchemain. "The only difference will be a question of what constitutes the pigtail. And are you, then, remaining at Sant' Alessina?" "For the present," answered John. "Until--?" she questioned. "Oh, well, until she sends me away, or leaves herself," said he, "and so my fool's paradise achieves its inevitable end." Lady Blanchemain laughed--a long, quiet laugh of amused contentment. "Come in to luncheon," she said, putting her soft white hand upon his arm, "and tell me all about it." And when they were established at her table, a round table, gay with flowers, in a window at the far end of the cool, terazza-paved, stucco-columned dining-room of the Hotel Victoria, "Why do you call it a fool's paradise?" she asked. "Well, you see, I'm in love," said he. "You really are?" she doubted, with sprightliness, looking gleeful. "All too really," he assured her, in a sinking voice. "What an old witch I was!" mused she, with satisfaction. "Accept my heart-felt felicitations." She beamed upon him.