“Paris be hanged,” she retorted; “I’m in love with a man and not with a town.” “It’s still me?” Michael asked a little wistfully. “Always you,” she said softly. “One big reason I like to go abroad is because it makes me so glad to get back to you.” She sat on the arm of his chair and patted his head affectionately. “But look here,” said Michael with an affectation of reproof, “whenever I want a little trot around the country and suggest leaving, you begin--” She put her hand over his mouth and stopped him. “Oh, that’s very different. When we do separate I always want to be the one to leave, not to be left.” “It _is_ much easier to go than to stay,” he agreed, “and I’ve been pretty lonely these last six weeks.” “But you’ve had a lot of business to attend to,” she reminded him. “That’s finished two weeks ago.” “And then you’ve had the insidious Lambart and all the Scotch you wanted.” “’Tisn’t nearly as much fun to drink when you’re away,” he insisted. “It always takes the sport out of it not to be stopped.” “Oh, Fibber!” she said, shaking her head. “Well, most of the sport,” he corrected. He held her off at arm’s length and regarded her with admiration. “Do you know, I sometimes wonder what ever made you marry me.” “Sometimes I wonder, too,” she answered, “but not often! I really think we’re the ideal married couple, sentimental when we’re alone, and critical when we have guests.” “That’s true,” he admitted proudly, “and most people hate each other in private and love each other in public.” Michael hugged her to emphasize the correctness of their marital deportment. “You are a dear old thing,” she said affectionately. “Do you know I don’t feel a bit married,” he returned boyishly, “I just feel in love.” “That’s the nicest thing you ever said to me,” she said, rising and kissing him. “But I’ve got to go and find Ethel now.” “You’ve made me feel fairly dizzy,” he asserted, still holding her hand, “I need a drink to sober up.” “Oh, Michael,” she cried reprovingly, and drew away from him “I believe you’ve been trying to get around me just for that!” “Oh, no, you don’t,” he said smiling. “Now, do you?” “No, I don’t, Mikey,” she admitted. “But be careful, here’s Monty and Nora.” “Heavens!” cried Nora, looking in, “still lecturing, you two?” “You do look rather henpecked,” Monty said, addressing his host. “Yes,” Michael sighed, “we’ve been having a dreadful row, but I’m of a forgiving nature and I’m going to reward her. Monty, touch that button there, I want Lambart.” Alice looked at him in wonderment. “What do you mean?” “Wait,” he said with a chuckle. “Lambart,” he commanded, as the butler stood before him, “bring it in.” There was respect in his tone. “It ought to be at its best now.” On a silver salver Lambart bore in and presented to his mistress a large liqueur glass filled with a clear liquid of delicate mauve hue. Alice looked at it a little fearfully. “Oh, Mikey,” she said, “is this another new invention?”