r
any woman's caprice is not chivalrous. But perhaps you do know? . . ."

Mills shook his head with an amused air. Blunt, who had raised his eyes
from his plate to look at him, started afresh with great deliberation.

"She gives no peace to herself or her friends. My mother's exquisitely
absurd. You understand that all these painters, poets, art collectors
(and dealers in bric-a-brac, he interjected through his teeth) of my
mother are not in my way; but Versoy lives more like a man of the world.
One day I met him at the fencing school. He was furious. He asked me to
tell my mother that this was the last effort of his chivalry. The jobs
she gave him to do were too difficult. But I daresay he had been pleased
enough to show the influence he had in that quarter. He knew my mother
would tell the world's wife all about it. He's a spiteful, gingery
little wretch. The top of his head shines like a billiard ball. I
believe he polishes it every morning with a cloth. Of course they didn't
get further than the big drawing-room on the first floor, an enormous
drawing-room with three pairs of columns in the middle. The double doors
on the top of the staircase had been thrown wide open, as if for a visit
from royalty. You can picture to yourself my mother, with her white hair
done in some 18th century fashion and her sparkling black eyes,
penetrating into those splendours attended by a sort of bald-headed,
vexed squirrel--and Henry Allegre coming forward to meet them like a
severe prince with the face of a tombstone Crusader, big white hands,
muffled silken voice, half-shut eyes, as if looking down at them from a
balcony. You remember that trick of his, Mills?"

Mills emitted an enormous cloud of smoke out of his distended cheeks.

"I daresay he was furious, too," Blunt continued dispassionately. "But
he was extremely civil. He showed her all the 'treasures' in the room,
ivories, enamels, miniatures, all sorts of monstrosities from Japan, from
India, from Timbuctoo . . . for all I know. . . He pushed his
condescension so far as to have the 'Girl in the Hat' brought down into
the drawing-room--half length, unframed. They put her on a chair for my
mother to look at. The 'Byzantine Empress' was already there, hung on
the end wall--full length, gold frame weighing half a ton. My mother
first overwhelms the 'Master' with thanks, and then absorbs herself in
the adoration of the 'Girl in the Hat.' Then she sighs out