Robin Pierce could not tell from the way this was said what would be a safe remark to make. He therefore changed the subject. “Do you know what Sir Donald’s been doing?” he said. “No. What?” “Buying a Campo Santo.” “A Campo Santo! Is he going to bury himself, then? What do you mean, Robin?” “He called it a Campo Santo to Carey. It’s really a wonderful house in Italy, on Como. Casa Felice is the name of it. I know it well.” “Casa Felice. How delicious! But is it the place for Sir Donald?” “Why not?” “For an old, tired man. Casa Felice. Won’t the name seem an irony to him when he’s there?” “You think an old man can’t be happy anywhere?” “I can’t imagine being happy old.” “Why not?” “Oh!”--she lowered her voice--“if you want to know, look at Mrs. Ulford.” “Your husk theory again. A question of looks. But you will grow old gracefully--some day in the far future.” “I don’t think I shall grow old at all.” “Then--?” “I think I shall die before that comes--say at forty-five. I couldn’t live with wrinkles all over my face. No, Robin, I couldn’t. And--look at Mrs. Ulford!--perhaps an ear-trumpet set with opals.” “What do the wrinkles matter? But some day you’ll find I’m right. You’ll tell me so. You’ll acknowledge that your charm comes from within, and has survived the mutilation of the husk.” “Mutilation! What a hideous sound that word has. Why don’t all mutilated people commit suicide at once? I should. Is Sir Donald going to live in his happy house?” “Naturally. He’ll be there this August. He’s invited Rupert Carey to stay there with him.” “And you?” “Not yet.” “I suppose he will. Everybody always asks you everywhere. Diplomacy is so universally--” She broke off. Far away, at the end of the gallery, she had caught sight of Miss Schley coming in with her husband. They sat down at a table near the door. Robin Pierce followed her eyes and understood her silence. “Are you going on the first?” he asked. “What to?” “Miss Schley’s first night.” “Is it on the first? I didn’t know. We can’t. We’re dining at Brayley House that evening.” “What a pity!” he said, with a light touch of half playful malice. “You would have seen her as she really is--from all accounts.” “And what is Miss Schley really?” “The secret enemy of censors.” “Oh!” “You dislike her. Why?” “I don’t dislike her at all.” “Do you like her?” “No. I like very few women. I don’t understand them.” “At any rate you understand--say Miss Schley--better than a man would.” “Oh--a man!” “I believe all women think all men fools.” Lady Holme laughed, not very gaily. “Don’t they?” he insisted. “In certain ways, in certain relations of life, I suppose most men are--rather short-sighted.” “Like Mr. Bry.” “Mr. Bry is the least short-sighted man I know. That’s why he always wears an eyeglass.” “To create an illusion?” “Who knows?”