"A friend!" exclaims Lauraine, quickly. "I should never think of doing that. I am not the sort of woman who can't exist without a confidant--some one to 'gush' to and consult, and be constantly with. But Lady Jean is very charming, and has been very kind to me, and Sir Francis wished me to show her every attention." A little hard smile comes to Keith Athelstone's lips. "You are very obedient," he says. Lauraine colours, and is silent. Meanwhile, at the further end of the room, with her yellow skirts and blood-red poppies gleaming in the lamplight, Lady Jean and Sir Francis Vavasour are talking confidentially together. "Why must he come?" asks Sir Francis, drawing his dark brows together in a heavy frown. "You could manage it if you wished." "Manage it?" re-echoes Lady Jean. "_Cher ami_, what can't a woman manage when she wishes? But I don't wish to manage it. I don't care to be talked about as we should be. Of course Jo would do anything I wished, but I know what's best, and mean to stick to my first resolution." Mr. Salomans rejoices in the name of "Joel," but his wife has long ago decreed that it shall not be used by her lips, and "Jo" he always is and always will be. "You will spoil all the pleasure of the trip for me," murmurs Sir Francis. "Chut!" she says, contemptuously; "don't be foolish. You can grow sentimental on the waters of the Mediterranean while you think of your absent wife." "My wife," mutters Sir Francis, following the rapid gesture of the fan. "Oh, there's that young fool again. I wonder he isn't tired of her; she's insufferably stupid." "Most good women are," agrees Lady Jean; "but they have one incomparable advantage--they are so safe. You can always get amusement, you know, from other men's wives--it is a consolation to think the 'other' men can't get it from yours." Sir Francis feels a little twinge. He knows perfectly well what she wishes to convey, but he has an obstinate conviction that Keith's attentions to his wife are nothing to her, that whatever _tendresse_ there is, lies on the side of the young man. Lauraine is cold and calm and uninteresting--he has made up his mind to those facts. Lady Jean has not yet been able to stimulate his tired passion for his wife into emitting one spark of jealous fire. He has tired of her, but he has great trust in her. He never fears that a breath of scandal will hover about her, and to all Lady Jean's hints he turns a deaf ear--as yet. "I often wonder what made you marry," says Lady Jean, under cover of the music that has followed the recitation; "and she seems so unlike the sort of woman who would tempt you into such a folly." "You are right; it was a folly," mutters Sir Francis, moodily. "But I was mad about her at the time, and, after all, one must marry some time or other; it is a necessity when you have property and all that."