Geraldstein chatted while Marian quietly but entirely enjoyed herself. There was a spice in the knowledge that her companion admired her, and that, boor as he was in many ways, he was sufficiently refined to appreciate her and to like to see her in a worthy setting. Her costume became her, was a perfect support to her beauty; the luxury around pleased her; for the time being she was content, and she did not permit any doubt of the future to depreciate the sure delights of the present. The wine Geraldstein had chosen was one of those Bordeaux for which M. Goldoni’s cellar is far famed; a mellow, tender wine, whose subtle flavor passes like the vanishing of a dream, an innocent wine to the taste, but insidious, full of the warmth and languor of the sunshine that ripened the grapes from which it is crushed. Marian drank it slowly, fully appreciative; it fired her blood, brought added color to her cheeks and softness to her eyes. The subdued hum of conversation, the quiet light, the silent waiters, the delicious flavor of the foods, the wine—induced a gentle intoxication and a sense of unreality. She scarcely heard half of what Geraldstein said to her. After a while he too became almost silent, watching her with ever-increasing delight in her beauty. “Are you enjoying yourself?” he asked by and by. “Very much. Did you think I wasn’t because I didn’t talk? I am enjoying myself—very much. I’d heard a lot about Goldoni’s, but it’s even better than they said it was. Everything’s puffect, so are most of the people. What a lovely woman that is—nearly opposite me—with the black hair and eyes.” “That’s the Duchess of Bermondsey and the Duke. They’re a regular young Darby and Joan, always together and always looking happy.” “Perhaps they are happy——” “Why not? There are many varieties of happiness. I was amused looking over a woman’s confession-book once, to find that no two of her friends had—or confessed to having—exactly the same idea of happiness. I wonder what yours is?” She turned quickly to him, his question jarring on her present mood. “I’m a woman and change my mind every five minutes.” “But _now_,” he persisted. “If I could satisfy any wish you had—what would you wish?” “I don’t wish for anything—I’m quite content.” “Quite content? That means you’re miserable. Life wouldn’t be worth living if there wasn’t something left we want and can’t have. I always seem to be wanting something. I shall look on it as a sign of old age when I begin to be content. That’s the one drawback to this place—it’s perfect. There’s only one perfection I’ve ever found that I wouldn’t have altered.” “What’s that?” “You.” “What an elaborately led-up-to compliment!” Marian said, laughing consciously. “How often has it done duty? Do you pay it to everyone who dines with you here?”