She had never seen that look in Fallaray’s eyes before and was intrigued. It had never been brought to life by her. Could it be possible that this Quixote, this St. Anthony, had looked at last upon the flesh pots? What fun if he had! How delicious was the mere vague idea of Fallaray, of all men, being touched by anything so ordinary and human as love, and how vastly amusing that she, who had worked herself into a sort of half belief that she was attracted by this young Polish singer, should now stand face to face with the man to whom she was tied by law, though by no other bonds. The dash up from the country was worth it even though she had risen unsatisfied from dinner and missed her coffee and cognac.... Or was it that she herself, having dropped from the clouds, and looking as she knew she did, more beautiful and fresh than usual because of her imaginary love affair with this long-haired youth who sang like a thrush, had brought this unaccustomed look into her husband’s eyes?... How very amusing! “Do you mean to say that having only driven down this afternoon to the country, you’ve come all the way up again just to hear two or three songs?” “I do,” she said. “Mad, isn’t it? ‘That crazy woman Feo on the rampage again.’ Is that what you’re thinking?” “Something like that,” he answered, and smiled at her. He felt queerly and charmingly young that night and lenient and rather in sympathy with madness. The Cromwellianism in which he had wrapped himself had fallen temporarily from his shoulders. He put his hand under her elbow and brought her up to the top step on a level with himself. “My God,” thought Lady Feo, “the man’s alive for once. He tingles. I _must_ be looking well.” What did it matter if Leo Kirosch was singing and she would miss his songs? It was much better sport to stand on the steps of that old building and flirt with her husband. She took his arm and stood close against him and looked up into his face with her most winning smile. “It gave me the shock of my life to see you here,” she said. “I didn’t know that you had a penchant for these suburban orgies. Who are you with?” “My mother and Aunt Betsy.” Under any other circumstances Feo would have thrown back her head and laughed derisively. Those two old birds. Instead of which she snuggled a little closer just to see the effect. It was ages since she had treated this man to anything in the nature of familiarity, in fact it was the first time since that night when she had made him kiss her because his profile and his tennis playing had obsessed her. “After you’ve taken them home,” she said, “why not motor back with us? It’s a gorgeous night, and the Eliots’ cottage is high up on a range of hills almost within reaching distance of the stars.”