things, had described to me as a
"sweet, pretty lady's-chair."

Antony sat down. The light from the lily electric branches made the
gray in his hair shine silver. He looked tired and not so mocking as
usual.

"I have settled with your husband when you are to come to Dane Mount.
He says the 4th of November will suit him."

"We shall drive over, I suppose?"

"Yes."

After that we neither of us spoke for a few moments.

"Did you read La Rochefoucauld last night?" I asked, presently.

"No."

"Well, why did you ask for it, then?"

"I had a very good reason."

One could never describe the expression of Antony's face. If one goes
on saying "mocking," or "cynical," or "ironical," or "quizzical," it
gives no impression of what it is. It is a mixture of all four, and
yet laughing, and--and--tender, and _insouciant_, and gay. He is
himself, and there could never be any one like him. One feels as if
all common things must vanish and shrivel up before his style of wit.

One could think of him as finishing his game of chess calmly while the
officers of the Terror waited to conduct him to the guillotine. He is
exactly--oh, but exactly!--grandmamma's idea of a gentleman. I wish
she had seen more of him.

There is nothing _poseur_ or dramatic about him. He is quite simple,
although he laughs at things all the time. I seem to have learned more
of the world, and the tone of everything, just talking to him, than
from all the books I have read lately. What would it be like if he
were interested in anything intensely, if something moved him deeply,
if he really cared?

As I sat there I thought of many things. An atmosphere of home had
suddenly come into the room. I could almost believe I could hear
grandmamma's voice.

"What are you thinking of so seriously, Comtesse?" he asked, lazily.

"I was wondering--"

"Well?"

"I was wondering if anything really mattered in life; if one could
grow old and remain numb all the time; if things are real; if--oh,
does anything matter? Tell me, you who know."

"Not many things. Later, you will regret some things you have not
done--very few you have."

"I have been reading metaphysics lately, and, it seems, one could
reason one's self into believing nothing is real. One of my books said
the ancient Cynic philosophers doubted for the sake of investigation
and the moderns investigate for the sake of doubting. What does it all
mean?"

He began stroking Roy's ears. He had put his de