She asked the queer question, not defiantly, but bluntly. Her strange eyes laughed a little, as she saw Franky wince. "Lord Norwater hates me. Well, that’s about the limit!" she told herself. "And I helped on his love-affair for little Margot’s sake!" "I beg your pardon, Lord Norwater! You were saying something? ..." "You’re an Advanced Thinker, aren’t you, Miss Saxham? At least, my wife tells me so," Franky began. "Well, I’m not! But I’ve got my doubts as to whether vice is pleasant, for one thing—and for another, whether the general run of women in these days aren’t quite as vicious as the men?" "He wants to be nasty.... Poor boy, what have I done to him?" passed through the brain topped by the bizarre diadem. But before its wearer could reply, von Herrnung interposed: "Naturally they are vicious—if they desire to please men. A dash of vice—that is the last touch to perfect an exquisite woman. It is the chilli in the _mayonnaise_, the garlic and citron in the _ragoût_, the perfume of the carnation, the patch of rouge that lends brilliance to the eye, the bite in the kiss! ..." "The bite in the ... Great Snipe! what an expression!" thought Franky, whose attack of propriety had reached the acute stage. Patrine Saxham repeated slowly, and with brows that frowned a little: "’_The bite in the kiss_’...." "You pretend not to understand..." said the guttural voice of von Herrnung, speaking so that his wine- and cigar-scented breath stirred the heavy hair that hid her small white ear. "But you are wiser than you would have me believe. Are you not? Tell me!—am I not right?" He bent closer, and she broke a web that seemed in the last few moments to have been spun about her, invisible, delicate, strong, making captive the body and the mind. Her odd agate-coloured eyes laughed into his jeeringly. Her wide red mouth curved and split like a ripe pomegranate, showing the sharp white teeth that, backed by a vigorous appetite and seconded by a splendid digestion, had done justice to every course of Brayham’s choice menu. Men always waxed sentimental or enterprising towards the close of a rattling good dinner. Patrine didn’t care, not a merry little hang! They might say and look what they liked, as long as they kept their hands off. At a touch, the quick revulsion came. "You are amused.... I understand...." Von Herrnung spoke between his teeth, in a tone of stifled anger. "Always to rot; it is your English fashion.... When you encourage a man to make love to you, you are rotting. When you say sweet things to him—possibly you are rotting too?"