" she declared. "I am tired. I have been
losing all day, and altogether I have had a most depressing time."

"It is not as it should be, that," he observed, smiling. "This is a city
of pleasure. One was meant to leave one's cares behind here. If any one
in this world," he added, "should be without them, it should be you."

He looked at her respectfully yet with an admiration which he made no
effort to conceal. There was nothing in the look over-personal. She
accepted it with gratitude.

"You are always kind," she murmured.

"This reminds me of some of our evenings in London," he went on, "when
we used to talk music before we went to the Opera. I always found those
evenings so restful and pleasant. Won't you try and forget that you have
lost a few pennies; forget, also, your other worries, whatever they may
be? I have had a letter to-day from the one great writer whom we both
admire. I shall read it to you. And I have a list of the operas for next
week. I see that your husband's little protegee, Felicia Roche, is
here."

"My husband's protegee?" she repeated. "I don't quite understand."

He seemed, for a moment, embarrassed.

"I am sorry," he said. "I had no idea. But your husband will tell you if
you ask him. It was he who paid for her singing education, and her
triumph is his. But the name must be known to you."

"I have never heard it in connection with my husband," she declared,
frowning slightly. "Henry does not always take me into his confidence."

"Then I am sorry," he continued penitently, "that I mentioned the
matter. It was clumsy of me. I had an idea that he must have told you
all about her.... Another glass of wine, please, and you will find your
appetite comes. Jules has prepared that salmon trout specially. I'll
read you the letter from Maurice, if you like, and afterwards there is a
story I must tell you."

The earlier stages of dinner slipped pleasantly away. Draconmeyer was a
born conversationalist,--a good talker and a keen tactician. The food
and the wine, too, did their part. Presently Violet lifted her head, the
colour came back to her cheeks, she too began to talk and laugh. All the
time he was careful not to press home his advantage. He remembered that
one night in the library at Grosvenor Square, when she had turned her
head and looked at him for a moment before leaving. She must be
different now, he told himself fiercely. It was impossible that she
could continue to love a husband who