"Do you see how her sleeves fit?" she asked. "It was her sleeves which first attracted my attention. I saw them at a luncheon in New York, and they gave me new theories of life. When a woman can accomplish sleeves like those, society need ask nothing further of her." Tredennis glanced down at her own. "Have you accomplished"--he suggested. "In moments of rashness and folly," she answered, "I have occasionally been betrayed into being proud of my sleeves; but now I realize that the feeling was simply impious." He waited with grim patience until she had finished, and then turned his back upon Miss Varien's sleeves. "Will you tell me about Janey?" he said. "When last I saw her, which was this morning," she replied, "she was as well as usual, and so were the others. Now I have no doubt they are all in bed." "May I come and see them to-morrow, or the day after?" "Yes," she answered. "And at anytime. I hope you will come often. Mrs. Sylvestre will be with me until her house is ready for her, and, as I said before, I wish you to know her well." "I shall feel it a great privilege," he responded. She leaned back a little in her chair, and regarded her with an expression of interest even greater than she had been aroused to by the contemplation of Miss Varien's sleeves. "Have you found out yet," she inquired, "what her greatest charm is?" "Is it by any chance a matter of sleeves?" he asked; and he made the suggestion stolidly. "No," she answered, "it is not sleeves. One's difficulty is to decide _what_ it is. A week ago I thought it was her voice. Yesterday I was sure it was her eyelashes and the soft shadow they make about her eyes. About an hour ago I was convinced it was her smile, and now I think it must be her power of fixing her attention upon you. See how it flatters Mr. Arbuthnot, and how, though he is conscious of his weakness, he succumbs to it. It will be very pleasant occupation during the winter to watch his struggles." "Will he struggle?" said Tredennis, still immovably. "I don't think I would in his place." "Oh, no," she answered. "You mustn't struggle." "I will not," he returned. She went on with a smile, as if he had spoken in the most responsive manner possible. "Mr. Arbuthnot's struggles will not be of the usual order," she remarked. "He will not be struggling with his emotions, but with his vanity. He knows that she will not fall in love with him, and he has no intention of falling in love with her. He knows better--and he does not like affairs. But he will find that she is able to do things which will flatter him, and that it will require all his self-control to refrain from displaying his masculine delight in himself and the good-fortune which he has the secret anguish of knowing does not depend upon his merits. And his struggles at a decently composed demeanor, entirely untinged by weak demonstrations of pleasure or consciousness of himself, will be a very edifying spectacle."