er way. Can you conceive
loving a man whom you felt you understood?"

"Certainly. Especially if he were difficult for other people to
understand."

"Ah! you begin to appreciate the value of doubt. We often begin by
desiring others to enjoy what we shall eventually want for ourselves.
The moment we understand a human being, our love for that human being
spreads his wings preparatory to flying out of the window."

Lady Locke, who had begun to look earnest, seemed to recollect herself
with an effort, and dispelled the gravity that was settling over her
face with a smile.

"You go very far in your admirable desire to amuse," she said.

"I think not," he answered, putting down her cup with an elaborate
serenity. "One must perpetually doubt to be faithful. Perplexity and
mistrust fan affection into passion, and so bring about those beautiful
tragedies that alone make life worth living. Women once felt this while
men did not, and so women once ruled the world. But men are awakening
from their mental slumber, and are becoming incomprehensible. Lord
Reggie is an instance of what I mean. The average person finds him
exquisitely difficult to comprehend. He fascinates by being sedulously
unexpected. Listen to his anthem. He is beginning to play it. How
unexpected it is. It always does what the ear wants, and all modern
music does what the ear does not want. Therefore the ear always expects
to be disappointed, and Lord Reggie astonishes it by never disappointing
it."

The faint music of the piano now tinkled out into the night, and
numerous simple harmonies and full closes fell melodiously upon their
hearing.

"Lord Reggie is certainly very unlike his anthem," said Lady Locke,
listening a little sadly.

"Reggie is unlike everything except himself. He is completely wonderful,
and, wonderfully complete. He lives for sensations, while other people
live for faiths, or for convictions, or for prejudices. He would make
any woman unhappy. How beautiful!"

"Is it always a sign of intelligence to be what others are not?"

But she received no direct answer to her question, for at this moment
Madame Valtesi and Mrs. Windsor came to them across the lawn. They had
finished trying the divorce case.

"What is that about intelligence?" Madame Valtesi asked croakily.

"Dear Lady!" said Esme, getting up out of his chair slowly,
"intelligence is the demon of our age. Mine bores me horribly. I am
always trying to find a remedy for it. I