Until I saw her perched in the corner of the sofa, with her legs tucked up under her, and the light playing a game of magic amid the reds and golds and browns of her hair, while she cheerily discoursed to us of Hamdi’s villainy, I never noticed the dull decorum of this room. I was struck with the decorative value of mere woman. I must break myself of the habit of wandering off on a meditative tangent to the circle of conversation. I was brought back by hearing Pasquale say: “So you’re going to marry an Englishman. It’s all fixed and settled, eh?” “Of course,” laughed Carlotta. “Have you made up your mind what he is to be like?” I could see the unconscionable Don Juan instinctively preen himself peacock fashion. “I am going to marry Seer Marcous,” said Carlotta, calmly. She made this announcement not as a jest, not as a wish, but as the commonplace statement of a fact. There was a moment of stupefied silence. Pasquale who had just struck a match to light a cigarette stared at me and let the flame burn his fingers. I stared at Carlotta, speechless. The colossal impudence of it! “I am sorry to contradict you,” said I, at last, with some acidity, “but you are going to do no such thing.” “I am not going to marry you?” “Certainly not.” “Oh!” said Carlotta, in a tone of disappointment. Pasquale rose, brought his heels together, put his hand on his heart and made her a low bow. “Will you have me instead of this stray bit of Stonehenge?” “Very well,” said Carlotta. I seized Pasquale by the arm. “For goodness sake, don’t jest with her! She has about as much sense of humour as a prehistoric cave-dweller. She thinks you have made her a serious offer of marriage.” He made her another bow. “You hear what Sir Granite says? He forbids our union. If I married you without his consent, he would flay me alive, dip me in boiling oil and read me aloud his History of Renaissance Morals. So I’m afraid it is no good.” “Then I mustn’t marry him either?” asked Carlotta, looking at me. “No!” I cried, “you are not going to marry anybody. You seem to have hymenomania. People don’t marry in this casual way in England. They think over it for a couple of years and then they come together in a sober, God-fearing, respectable manner.” “They marry at leisure and repent in haste,” interposed Pasquale. “Precisely,” said I. “What we call a marriage-bed repentance,” said Pasquale. “I told you this poor child had no sense of humour,” I objected. “You might as well kill yourself as marry without it.” “You are not going to marry anybody, Carlotta,” said I, “until you can see a joke.” “What is a joke?” inquired Carlotta. “Mr. Pasquale asked you to marry him. He didn’t mean it. That was a joke. It was enormously funny, and you should have laughed.” “Then I must laugh when any one asks me to marry him?” “As loud as you can,” said I. “You are so strange in England,” sighed Carlotta.