“Like Aristotle or Herbert Spencer, or the sailor’s parrot,” said Olivia. “Of course, dear. But is he so dreadfully wealthy as all that? What does he do?” “He attends Boards of Directors. As far as I can make out he belongs to a Society for the Promotion of Un-christian Companies.” “Don’t you care for him?” Lydia shook her exquisitely picture-hatted head—she was a creamy Gainsborough or nothing. “In that way, not a bit. Of course, he has been a real good friend to me. But after all—marriage—it’s difficult to explain——” In spite of her cynicism, Lydia had always respected the girlhood of her friend. But Olivia flung the scornful arm of authority. “There’s no need of explanation. I know all about it.” “In that case——” said Lydia. She paused, lit a cigarette, and with her large, feline grace of writhing curves, settled herself more comfortably in the corner of the couch—“I thought you would bring a fresh mind to bear upon things. But no matter. In that case, dear, what would you advise?” Before the girl’s mental vision arose the man in question—the old young man, the man of fifty, with the air and manner and dress of the man of twenty-five; his mark of superficial perfection that hid God knew what strange sins, stoniness of heart and blight of spirit. She saw him in his impeccable devotion to Lydia. But something in the imagined sight of him sent a shiver through her pure, yet not ignorant, maidenhood: something of which the virginal within her defied definition, yet something abhorrent. The motor-car had failed; now the wedding-ring. She recaptured the fleeting, disquieting sense of Lydia on her first evening in London—the woman’s large proclamation of sex. Instinctively she transferred her impression to the man, and threw a swift glance at Lydia lying there, milk and white, receptive. A word once read and forgotten—a word in some French or English novel—sprang to her mind, scraped clear from the palimpsest of memory. Desirable. A breath-catching, hateful word. She stood aghast and shrinking on the edge of knowledge. “My darling child, what on earth is the matter with you?” Olivia started at the voice, as though awakening from a dream. “I think it’s horrible,” she cried. “What?” “Marrying a man you can no more love than—— Ugh! I wouldn’t marry him for thousands of millions.” “Why? I want to know.” But the shiver in the girl’s soul could not be expressed in words. “It’s a question of love,” she said lamely. Lydia laughed, called her a romantic child. It was not a question of love, but of compatible temperament. Marriage wasn’t a week-end, but a life-end, trip. People had to get accustomed to each other in dressing-gowns and undress manners. She herself was sure that Sydney Rooke would wear the most Jermyn Street of dressing-gowns, at any rate. But the manners? “They’ll always be as polished as his finger-nails,” said Olivia.