ver all the windows, thrushes and blackbirds were twittering on
the lawn, the air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, a boatman was
busy with the boats. Out beyond, through the trees, the river wound its
placid way.

"Quite a little paradise," Lady Cynthia murmured.

"Delightful," her companion assented. "I suppose great wealth has its
obligations, but why any human being should rear such a structure as
what he calls his Borghese villa, when he has a charming place like that
to live in, I can't imagine."

Her silence was significant, almost purposeful. She unwound the veil
from her motoring turban, took it off altogether and attached it to the
cushions of the car with a hatpin.

"There," she said, leaning back, "you can now gaze upon a horrible
example to the young women of to-day. You can see the ravages which late
hours, innumerable cocktails, a thirst for excitement, a contempt of the
simple pleasures of life, have worked upon my once comely features. I
was quite good-looking, you know, in the days you first knew me."

"You were the most beautiful debutante of your season," he agreed.

"What do you think of me now?" she asked.

She met his gaze without flinching. Her face was unnaturally thin, with
disfiguring hollows underneath her cheekbones; her lips lacked colour;
even her eyes were lustreless. Her hair seemed to lack brilliancy.
Only her silken eyebrows remained unimpaired, and a certain charm of
expression which nothing seemed able to destroy.

"You look tired," he said.

"Be honest, my dear man," she rejoined drily. "I am a physical wreck,
dependent upon cosmetics for the looks which I am still clever enough to
palm off on the uninitiated."

"Why don't you lead a quieter life?" he asked. "A month or so in the
country would put you all right."

She laughed a little hardly. Then for a moment she looked at him
appraisingly.

"I was going to speak to you of nerves," she said, "but how would you
ever understand? You look as though you had not a nerve in your body.
I can't think how you manage it, living in London. I suppose you do
exercises and take care of what you eat and drink."

"I do nothing of the sort," he assured her indignantly. "I eat and
drink whatever I fancy. I have always had a direct object in life--my
work--and I believe that has kept me fit and well. Nerve troubles come
as a rule, I think, from the under-used brain."

"I must have been born with a butterfly disposition," she sai