“I believe there is no more rigid code of etiquette than that which obtains among curates’ wives in the country. I used to know three curates’ wives and one rector’s, but they have all dropped me. I never knew why.” “I am afraid you must have a dreadful reputation,” said the marchioness, admiringly. “I positively don’t think I ought to stay here alone with you. Do you know they call this the Lovers’ Window?” Despencer’s eyes fell on the marchioness, and he ventured two and a half inches nearer. “What a romantic situation! You ought not to have told me that. Remember that I am a poet.” “I am afraid you are only mocking me,” said the marchioness, lowering her eyes with a bashfulness which, regarded as a work of art, was beautiful. “I believe you are a heartless cynic.” Despencer moved an inch nearer along the divan as he protested-- “No, you are quite wrong. You must not judge me by outward appearances, or you will be deceived. The fact is, I am a hypocrite. I pretend to be more worldly and wicked than I really am. If you could look into my heart you would be surprised.” “I have no doubt of that. But you are not going to persuade me that I should find much innocence there.” “Ah! but, my dear marchioness, why speak of it like that? Think how uninteresting innocence is. Believe me, innocence has been sadly overpraised by people who knew very little about it. For my part, I much prefer experience. One is a blank page, the other is a romance, generally of the kind that is not allowed on the railway book-stalls.” The marchioness was not insensible to the subtle flattery. Her voice became actually soft. “You are not going to pretend to me that there is anything romantic about an old woman who will soon be forty.” (The marchioness’s own age in society was thirty-seven.) Despencer moved six inches closer. But there was no softening in his voice; that was where he had the advantage over the marchioness. “Every woman is romantic when she is seated in the Lovers’ Window with a man,” he murmured in her ear. What might have happened next it is impossible even to imagine. What did happen was that both started violently apart, and rose to their feet at the same time, the marchioness exclaiming, in a tone of subdued consternation, “Of all men in the world, my husband!” The Marquis of Severn had come in very quietly by the door at the farther end of the gallery. As his wife and her companion came rather awkwardly out on to the floor of the gallery, he walked past them into the window, scarcely heeding their presence, and stood with his back towards them, looking out at the slowly rising moon. Throwing an impatient frown behind her, the marchioness led the way out by the other door. Just as they reached it it was opened from without, revealing on the threshold Belle Yorke.