While, at her invitation, he repeated the waltz on the piano, whose strings might have been made of zinc, he heard a ring at the outer door and then the muffled sound of a colloquy between a male voice and the voice of the Italian. "Of course," he admitted philosophically, "she has other clients already." Such a woman was bound to have other clients. He felt no jealousy, nor even discomfort, from the fact that she lent herself to any male with sufficient money and a respectable appearance. The colloquy expired. "Ring, please," she requested, after thanking him. He hoped that she was not going to interrogate the Italian in his presence. Surely she would be incapable of such clumsiness! Still, women without imagination--and the majority of women were without imagination--did do the most astounding things. There was no immediate answer to the bell; but in a few minutes the Italian entered with a tea-tray. Christine sat up. "I will pour the tea," said she, and to the Italian: "Marthe, where is the evening paper?" And when Marthe returned with a newspaper damp from the press, Christine said: "To Monsieur...." Not a word of curiosity as to the unknown visitor! G.J. was amply confirmed in his original opinion of Christine. She was one in a hundred. To provide the evening paper.... It was nothing, but it was enormous. "Sit by my side," she said. She made just a little space for him on the sofa--barely enough so that he had to squeeze in. The afternoon tea was correct, save for the extraordinary thickness of the bread-and-butter. But G.J. said to himself that the French did not understand bread-and-butter, and the Italians still less. To compensate for the defects of the bread-and-butter there was a box of fine chocolates. "I perfect my English," she said. Tea was finished; they were smoking, the _Evening News_ spread between them over the tea-things. She articulated with a strong French accent the words of some of the headings. "Mistair Carlos Smith keeled at the front," she read out. "Who is it, that woman there? She must be celebrated." There was a portrait of the illustrious Concepcion, together with some sympathetic remarks about her, remarks conceived very differently from the usual semi-ironic, semi-worshipping journalistic references to the stars of Concepcion's set. G.J. answered vaguely. "I do not like too much these society women. They are worse than us, and they cost you more. Ah! If the truth were known--" Christine spoke with a queer, restrained, surprising bitterness. Then she added, softly relenting: "However, it is sad for her.... Who was he, this monsieur?" G.J. replied that he was nobody in particular, so far as his knowledge went. "Ah! One of those who are husbands of their wives!" said Christine acidly. The disturbing intuition of women! A little later he said that he must depart. "But why? I feel better." "I have a committee." "A committee?" "It is a work of charity--for the French wounded."