“I’ve seen people being vulgar there too. Besides, there may be reasons why it would not be good for me to live in Rome.” She glanced at him again less impertinently, and suddenly her whole body looked softer and kinder. “You must put up with my face, Robin,” she added. “It’s no good wishing me to be ugly. It’s no use. I can’t be.” She laughed. Her ill-humour had entirely vanished. “If you were--” he said. “If you were--!” “What then?” “Do you think no one would stick to you--stick to you for yourself?” “Oh, yes.” “Who, then?” “Quite several old ladies. It’s very strange, but old ladies of a certain class--the almost obsolete class that wears caps and connects piety with black brocade--like me. They think me ‘a bright young thing.’ And so I am.” “I don’t know what you are. Sometimes I seem to divine what you are, and then--then your face is like a cloud which obscures you--except when you are singing.” She laughed frankly. “Poor Robin! It was always your great fault--trying to plumb shallows and to take high dives into water half a foot deep.” He was silent for a minute. At last he said: “And your husband?” “Fritz!” His forehead contracted. “Fritz--yes. What does he do? Try to walk in ocean depths?” “You needn’t sneer at Fritz,” she said sharply. “I beg your pardon.” “Fritz doesn’t bother about shallows and depths. He loves me absurdly, and that’s quite enough for him.” “And for you.” She nodded gravely. “And what would Fritz do if you were to lose your beauty? Would he be like all the other men? Would he cease to care?” For the first time Lady Holme looked really thoughtful--almost painfully thoughtful. “One’s husband,” she said slowly. “Perhaps he’s different. He--he ought to be different.” A faint suggestion of terror came into her large brown eyes. “There’s a strong tie, you know, whatever people may say, a very strong tie in marriage,” she murmured, as if she were thinking out something for herself. “Fritz ought to love me, even if--if--” She broke off and looked about the room. Robin Pierce glanced round too over the chattering guests sitting or standing in easy or lazy postures, smiling vaguely, or looking grave and indifferent. Mrs. Wolfstein was laughing, and yawned suddenly in the midst of her mirth. Lady Cardington said something apparently tragic, to Mr. Bry, who was polishing his eyeglass and pouting out his dewy lips. Sir Donald Ulford, wandering round the walls, was examining the pictures upon them. Lady Manby, a woman with a pyramid of brown hair and an aggressively flat back, was telling a story. Evidently it was a comic history of disaster. Her gestures were full of deliberate exaggeration, and she appeared to be impersonating by turns two or three different people, each of whom had a perfectly ridiculous personality. Lord Holme burst into a roar of laughter. His big bass voice vibrated through the room. Suddenly Lady Holme laughed too.