“What selfish beings you men are,” she observed. “Why such cynicism?” “You abandon us for tobacco. I am sure you have been talking for forty minutes.” “Politics proved powerful.” “I did not know you were a politician.” “No, I am not patriotic with my tongue. Mr. Mince and I had an argument on street-preaching. How easy it is to offend some people.” Gabriel seated himself on the sofa beside Ophelia Gusset. She was shading her face from the fire with her fan, her shoulders gleaming white through a web of lace. The red flowers at her breast shone like stars to pilot desire. A mesmeric atmosphere seemed to encircle her; her large eyes were languorous and alluring. “You seem in queenly isolation,” said the man, noting almost unconsciously the white sweep of her shoulders. She smiled at him, and seemed none too sorry to surrender her solitude into his keeping. “Elderly ladies are really too trying,” she said to him. “I never met such extraordinary rustics as Saltire produces.” “Mrs. Mince and Mrs. Marjoy have been conversing for your benefit? A lecture on infant underclothing or the darning of stockings?” “Far worse, I assure you. Missionary incidents from _The Reaper_; a dissertation on pickling onions; certain remarks from Mr. Mince’s last sermon.” “And Mrs. Marjoy?” “What does Mrs. Marjoy usually talk about?” “Herself and her children and the vices of her friends.” “Dear creature! Blanche had a thrust at her before you joined us.” “Your sister is a brave woman.” “It was really quite epigrammatic. Blanche declared that a spoiled child was like a spinster’s poodle—an animal that always had the best chair, clawed the visitor’s clothes, and yelped eternally for cake.” “Excellent! excellent!” “Mrs. Marjoy glared.” “Heaven be thanked! I am not the doctor.” They wandered out into the conservatory together, where tulips, red, purple, and gold, blazoned the benches. Azaleas stood starred with color amid the ascetic snow of lilies. Bowls of mignonette and violet dowered the air with odors. Many rich plants were brilliant with bloom. The girl drew her bare arm gently from Gabriel’s. Her movements were sinuous and graceful, mesmeric as a Circe’s. He marked the rare curves of her neck and shoulders, her delicate coloring, the golden profusion of her luxurious hair. The vision of the girl bathing in the pool still burned and glimmered in his brain. He was susceptible to sensations for the moment, too prone to pander to the sensuous in art. “Mrs. Marjoy is a great gardener,” he said, reverting to mundane malice to restrain his thoughts. “If I were Hamlet’s Ophelia,” she answered him, “I should give her a posy of nettles.” The man laughed and touched her hand. “And to me?” She pouted out her lips with a mischievous stare. “Laurel leaves, perhaps, to wear when you are laureate.” “Sarcasm.” “Retort at your leisure.”