She seated herself by the edge of the pool, and gazed in. “These fish were given to me by my cousin, Ned Carter. They call him Buzzie. Have you met him yet?—No, of course not. He’s Charlie’s brother, and he collects art things—the most unbelievable things. Once, a long time ago, he took a fad for goldfish—some goldfish are very rare and beautiful, you know—one can pay twenty-five and fifty dollars apiece for them. He got all the dealers had, and when he learned that there were some they couldn’t get, he took a trip to Japan and China on purpose to get them. You know they raise them there, and some of them are sacred, and not allowed to be sold or taken out of the country. And he had all sorts of carved ivory receptacles for them, that he brought home with him—he had one beautiful marble basin about ten feet long, that had been stolen from the Emperor.” Over Montague’s shoulder where he sat, there hung an orchid, a most curious creation, an explosion of scarlet flame. “That is the _odonto-glossum_,” said Mrs. Winnie. “Have you heard of it?” “Never,” said the man. “Dear me,” said the other. “Such is fame!” “Is it supposed to be famous?” he asked. “Very,” she replied. “There was a lot in the newspapers about it. You see Winton—that’s my husband, you know—paid twenty-five thousand dollars to the man who created it; and that made a lot of foolish talk—people come from all over to look at it. I wanted to have it, because its shape is exactly like the coronet on my crest. Do you notice that?” “Yes,” said Montague. “It’s curious.” “I’m very proud of my crest,” continued Mrs. Winnie. “Of course there are vulgar rich people who have them made to order, and make them ridiculous; but ours is a real one. It’s my own—not my husband’s; the Duvals are an old French family, but they’re not noble. I was a Morris, you know, and our line runs back to the old French ducal house of Montmorenci. And last summer, when we were motoring, I hunted up one of their chateaux; and see! I brought over this.” Mrs. Winnie pointed to a suit of armour, placed in a passage leading to the billiard-room. “I have had the lights fixed,” she added. And she pressed a button, and all illumination vanished, save for a faint red glow just above the man in armour. “Doesn’t he look real?” said she. (He had his visor down, and a battle-axe in his mailed hands.) “I like to imagine that he may have been my twentieth great-grandfather. I come and sit here, and gaze at him and shiver. Think what a terrible time it must have been to live in—when men wore things like that! It couldn’t be any worse to be a crab.” “You seem to be fond of strange emotions,” said Montague, laughing. “Maybe I am,” said the other. “I like everything that’s old and romantic, and makes you forget this stupid society world.” She stood brooding for a moment or two, gazing at the figure. Then she asked, abruptly, “Which do you like best, pictures or swimming?”