Presently he pulled himself together and began to talk fluently and easily on purely impersonal themes—of the superiority of the Tyrol over the Swiss lakes as a summer resort, of the character of the people in Sicily, of books and art and European politics, and of a dozen different subjects that Marcia had never heard him mention before. It was the small talk of the diplomat, of the man who must always be ready to meet every one on his own ground. Marcia had known that Sybert could talk on other subjects than Italian politics when he chose, for she had overheard him at dinners and receptions, but he had never chosen when with her. In their early intercourse he had scarcely taken the trouble to talk to her in any but the most perfunctory way, and then suddenly their relations had no longer demanded formal conversation. They had somehow jumped over the preliminary period of getting acquainted and had reached the stage where they could understand each other without talking. And here he was conversing with her as politely and impersonally as if they had known each other only half an hour. She kept up her end of the conversation with monosyllables. She felt chilled and hurt; he might at least be frank. Whatever he thought of her, there was no need for this elaborate dissimulation. She had no need to ask herself to-night if he were watching her. His eyes never for a moment left the moonlit campagna. After half an hour or so Mrs. Copley stepped to the window of the salon to ask Marcia if she did not wish a wrap. It was warm, of course, but the evening dews were heavy. Marcia scoffed at the absurdity of a wrap on such an evening, but she rose obediently. They strolled into the house and paused at the door of the salon. The whist-players were studying their cards again with anxious brows; it appeared to be a scientific game. Marcia shook her head and laughed. ‘On such a night as this to be playing whist!’ Melville glanced up at her with a little smile. ‘Ah, well, Miss Marcia, we’re growing old—moonlight and romance were made for the young.’ Sybert smiled rather coldly as he turned away. It struck him that the remark was singularly malapropos.