een her marriage. Hopelessly
bowled over, as he called it, by her detailed loveliness, and not even
frightened by her general brilliance, Lord Chetwode had insisted on her
making the match of the previous season. He was a good-looking, amiable,
and wealthy young man, who was as lavish as if he had not had a penny,
and who showed his extravagantly long descent chiefly by being (for a
racing man) rather eccentrically interested in the subject of
decoration.

He was an owner of racehorses and a collector of curiosities, and these
tastes gave him certain interests apart from his wife. He was, however,
very much in love with her, and showed it chiefly by writing her nearly
every day long, elaborate, and conspicuously illegible love-letters. She
was not an expert in handwriting, nor had she time or patience to
decipher them. So she merely treasured them (unread) in a green and
white striped silk box. For under all her outward sentimentality,
Felicity was full of tenderness, especially for her husband. This was
not surprising, for he was a most agreeable companion, a great friend,
quite devoted to her, to his pretty home in London, and his picturesque
old house in the country, from all of which, however, he was as a rule
markedly absent. If one asked after Chetwode, the answer was nearly
always that he was away.

He had chosen every detail of the house in Park Street with a patience
worthy of his passion. In the bedroom, especially, not a concession was
made, not a point stretched. All was purest Louis-Quinze. But in spite
of this, and amidst all her tapestry and old French furniture, Felicity
had a very contemporary air. About everything was the recent look
characteristic of the home of a lately married couple. The room looked
as if it had been decorated the day before for a twentieth-century
Madame de Pompadour. But, if the background was almost archaeological,
the atmosphere was absolutely modern. In this incongruity was a certain
fascination.

Though the bridal freshness still lingered, a more wilful element was
also observable. Invitation-cards, race-cards, the _Daily Mail_,
magazines, English and French novels, and cigarettes were freely
scattered about, and an expert would have seen at a glance that the
dresses lying in every direction could not have formed part of any
trousseau. They had obviously been chosen with (or against) the advice
of Lord Chetwode.

Savile sat down on a pink curved sofa, and said definitely