She smoothed out the pale chiffon draperies with a tender hand. She got up and looked at herself in the mirror. It was fortunate that the reflection of snowy nose and throat and chin, and the pink velvet cheeks, required no art to perfect them; it was all natural and quite nice, she felt. What a bore it must be to have to touch up like Madame Boleski! But what was the meaning of all the imputations she had read of in those interesting French novels in Paris?--the languors and lassitudes and tremors of breakfasting love! There was just such a scene as this in one she had devoured on the boat. A _dejeuner_ of _amants--_certainly they had not been married, there was that want of resemblance, but surely this could not matter? For a fortnight, three weeks, a month, surely even a husband could be as a lover--especially to a mistress who took such pains to please his eye! Would Elsie Goldmore spend such dull breakfasts when she espoused Harry Kahn? Elsie Goldmore was a Jewess, perhaps that made the difference, perhaps Jews were more expansive--But the people in the novels were not Jews. Of course, though, they were French, that must be it! Could it be that all Englishmen, to their wives, were like John? This she must presently find out. Meanwhile she would try--oh, try so hard to entice him to be lovely to her! He was her own husband; there was absolutely no harm in doing this. And how glorious it would be to turn him into a lover! Here in this perfectly divine old house! John was so good-looking, too, and had the most attractive deep voice, but heavens! the matter-of-factness of everything about him! How long would it all go on? John came in presently with _The Times_ under his arm. He was immaculately dressed in a blue serge suit. Amaryllis had hoped to see him in that subduedly gorgeous dressing gown she had persuaded him to order at Charvets during their first days. It would have been so suitable and intimate and lover-like. But no! there was the blue serge suit--and _The Times_. A shadow fell upon her mood. Her own pink chiffons almost seemed out of place! John glanced at them, and at the glowing, living, delicious bit of young womanhood which they adorned. He saw the rebellious ripe cherry of a mouth, and the warm, soft tenderness in the grey eyes, and then he quickly looked out of the window--his own blue ones expressionless, but the hand which held the newspaper clenched rather hard. "Amn't I a pet!" cooed Amaryllis, deliberately subduing the chill of her first disappointment. "Dearest, see I have kept this last and loveliest set of garments for the morning of our home-coming--and for you!" and she crept close to him and laid her cheek against his cheek. He encircled her with his arm and kissed her calmly. "You look most beautiful, darling," he said. "But then, you always do, and your frills are perfection. Now I think we ought to have breakfast; it is most awfully late."