another faun arose before her, and with it the memory of a homely man with bright kind eyes, and she seemed to draw a breath of purer air. But she called the fancy foolishness and hardened her heart. Still, had it not been for Theodore Weever, the American man of affairs, she would probably have found some pretext for an abrupt departure. He alone was a personality among the characterless, vicious men and women of the house-party. Short, spare, alert, bald-headed, clean-shaven, clear-featured, he was of a type apart. Norma, who had a keen intelligence, divined in him from the first an adversary upon whom she could sharpen her wit and a companion who would not bore her with dreary tales of sport or the unprofitable details of his last night's play. And from the first Theodore Weever was attracted towards Norma. Their lax associates, in spite of her engagement to Morland being perfectly well known and in spite of Morland's expected arrival, recognised their pairing with embarrassing frankness, and said appalling things about them behind their backs. For a few days therefore they found themselves inseparable. At last their friendship reached the confidential stage. Mr. Theodore Weever avowed the object of his present visit to England. He was in search of a decorative wife. “It ought to be as easy as turning over a book of wallpapers,” said Norma. “And as difficult to choose,” said he. “You must know what scheme of colouring and design you want.” “Precisely. I don't find it in the books of stock patterns, either here or in America. And I've ransacked America.” “Is n't the line--I believe in commercial circles they call it a line--is n't the line of specially selected duchesses for the English market good enough for you?” she asked with a smile. He was about to light a cigarette when she began her question. He lit it and blew out the first few puffs of smoke before he replied. They were sitting in Norma's favourite nook on the terrace, where he, solitary male who had not gone forth with a gun that morning, had been gratuitously told by an obliging hostess that he would find her. “The American woman makes a good decorative duchess,” he said in his incisive tone, “because she has to sweep herself clean of every tradition she was born with and accept bodily the very much bigger and more dazzling tradition of your old aristocracy. She can do it, because she is infinitely sensitive and intelligent. But she is a changed creature. She has to live up to her duke.” He puffed for a moment or two at his cigarette. “Do you see what I am coming to?” he continued. “I am not an English duke. I am a plain American citizen. No woman in America would make it her ideal in life to live up to me.” “I don't mean to be rude,” interrupted Norma, with a laugh, “but do you think any Englishwoman would?”