had conceived for the mild, crazy gentleman, stalked the instinctive aversion which the sane feel towards those whose wits have gone ever so little astray. The news had come as an immense relief. Now she could meet him on normal ground. All was fair. They found two chairs by a little table under a tree, at the back of the Châlet Restaurant and secluded from the gaiety and laughter of the front. Nothing human was in sight save, through the tall, masking acacias and shrubs, the white gleams of cooks and hurrying, aproned waiters. “Let us sit,” she said. “How good it is to get a little cool and quiet. This _vie de cabaret_ is getting on my nerves. I’m weary to death of it.” Huckaby laughed. “It’s still enough novelty to me to be pleasant.” She accepted a cigarette. They smoked for a while. “How’s goodness getting on?” she asked. “By leaps and bounds daily. I’m becoming a fanatical believer in the copy-book. I’m virtuous. I’m happy. Industry is a virtue. My virtue is to be rewarded by industry. Therefore virtue is its own reward.” “What industry?” “I’m going to collaborate with our friend in the new book he’s talking about,” replied Huckaby, with a surviving touch of boastfulness. “There is also a possibility of my taking over the secretaryship of the Anthropological Society.” “You’re lucky,” said Lena Fontaine. “How’s goodness with you?” “The usual slump. Shares going dirt cheap. No one seems to have any use for virtue in a woman.” “Husbands seem to have, as I’ve already suggested to you.” “Have you any particular husband to suggest?” He cast on her a glance of admiration, for in her outward seeming she was an object for any man’s forgivable desire, and he said in a tone not wholly of banter: “The humble individual in front of you would have no chance, I suppose?” She laughed. “None whatever.” “You’ll pardon my presumption in making the offer; but could I, _en galant homme_, do otherwise?” “No,” she replied, good-humouredly, “you couldn’t. If you had five thousand a year, it would give me to think, for you’re not unsympathetic. But as you haven’t, I’ve no use for you—as a husband, _bien entendu_.” It was a jest. They laughed. Presently a cloud obscured the sunshine of her laughter. She leaned over the table. “Eustace Huckaby, are you or are you not my friend?” For once in her dealings with a man whose goodwill she desperately craved, she was sincere. She dropped the conscious play of glance and tone; but she forgot the liquid splendour of her eyes and the dangerous nearness of her face to his. “Your friend?” he cried, laying his hand on her wrist. “Can you doubt it? I am indeed. I swear it.” “Do you know why I’m staying here—apparently wasting my time?” “I’ve supposed something was up; but my supposition seemed too absurd!” “Why absurd?” “Quixtus as a husband?” “Yes. Why not?” He released her wrist and fell back in his chair. He frowned and tugged at his beard. “Do you care for him?”