"'Rosamund,'" he nodded carelessly--"the most mischievous of melodies--"
He stopped short, then coolly resumed: "That mischievous quality is
largely a matter of accident, I fancy. Schubert never meant that
'Rosamund' should interfere with anybody's business."

"And--when did you first encounter the malice in 'Rosamund,' Captain
Selwyn?" she asked with perfect self-possession.

He did not answer immediately; his smile had died out. Then: "The first
time I really understood 'Rosamund' was when I heard Rosamund during a
very delightful dinner."

She said: "If a woman keeps at a man long enough she'll extract
compliments or yawns." And looking up at a chinless young man who had
halted near her: "George, Captain Selwyn has acquired such a charmingly
Oriental fluency during his residence in the East that I thought--if you
ever desired to travel again--" She shrugged, and, glancing at Selwyn:
"Have you met my husband? Oh, of course."

They exchanged a commonplace or two, then other people separated them
without resistance on their part. And Selwyn found himself drifting,
mildly interested in the vapid exchange of civilities which cost nobody
a mental effort.

His sister, he had once thought, was certainly the most delightfully
youthful matron in New York. But now he made an exception of Mrs. Fane;
Rosamund Fane was much younger--must have been younger, for she still
had something of that volatile freshness--that vague atmosphere of
immaturity clinging to her like a perfume almost too delicate to detect.