So the lad was looking rather sulky, as with listless fingers
he turned over the pages of an elaborately illustrated edition
of Manon Lescaut that he had found in one of the book-cases. The
formal monotonous ticking of the Louis Quatorze clock annoyed him.
Once or twice he thought of going away.

At last he heard a step outside, and the door opened.
"How late you are, Harry!" he murmured.

"I am afraid it is not Harry, Mr. Gray," answered a shrill voice.

He glanced quickly round and rose to his feet. "I beg your pardon.
I thought--"

"You thought it was my husband. It is only his wife.
You must let me introduce myself. I know you quite well
by your photographs. I think my husband has got seventeen
of them."

"Not seventeen, Lady Henry?"

"Well, eighteen, then. And I saw you with him the other
night at the opera." She laughed nervously as she spoke,
and watched him with her vague forget-me-not eyes.
She was a curious woman, whose dresses always looked as if
they had been designed in a rage and put on in a tempest.
She was usually in love with somebody, and, as her passion
was never returned, she had kept all her illusions.
She tried to look picturesque, but only succeeded in being untidy.
Her name was Victoria, and she had a perfect mania for going