She got up and went close to him. "You're hopeless! Chetwode, do you really care for me--or do you like your curiosities and things better?" Lord Chetwode looked slightly nervous. His one mortal horror was anything that bore the most distant resemblance to a scene. "My dear child, why, surely you know you are far and away the most beautiful thing _I_ am ever likely to have in my collection!" he said, most admiringly. She turned away. She was terribly hurt; in her heart she had always feared her husband regarded her as a bibelot. The subject was, to her, too painful to discuss further. That he was sure of her--that showed knowledge of her--that she deserved. But he ought to have _minded about little things_ as she would. And he ought not always to be satisfied to leave her safe as the gem of the collection--and just come and look at it sometimes. Chetwode returned to the catalogue, and then said, "Of course you know I'm going to Teignmouth's for a week." "And you don't want _me_ to go?" "It's a man's party, darling! Only a week." "But wouldn't you like me to go racing with you sometimes? I would. I should love to." He looked up lazily. "I don't think a racecourse is the place for a woman. I like you better here. Of course, come if you like. Whenever you like. Would you like to see Princess Ida run?" "No, thanks.--Shall you be home to lunch?" "Yes, I dare say I shall. Are you lunching at home?" "I was going to Vera's, but I'd rather stay at home--for you." "Oh, don't do that, dear," he said decidedly. "I may look in at White's." "Well, when shall I see you?" "Why this evening, of course. Aren't we going to the opera, or something?" he asked. "Is it great agony for you to sit out Wagner?" She showed real sympathy. "It's Tannhäuser, you know." "Can't say I'm keen about it," he answered in a depressed voice. "If you _like_," she said, slightly piqued, "I could easily go with Sylvia and papa." "All right--or, I know--don't let us go at all!" said Chetwode. He was now in the hall, and she followed him. "Anything I can do for you, darling?" Then he added, "Don't move for a minute!" He was admiring her golden hair against the tapestry, and smiled with the real pride of the _collectionneur_. "Yes, you must really have your portrait painted, Felicity," he said. "Sargent's the man, I think--or--well, we'll talk it over." He went out, and the door banged relentlessly. Felicity moved back to the library and looked in the little carved silver mirror that lay on the table. She saw tears gradually stealing into her beautiful blue eyes, enlarging them, and she grew so sorry for the lovely little sad face--in fact for herself!--that she hastily put down the looking-glass, ran upstairs, and rang for her maid to dress her to go out. * * * * *