she adored; and the odour of cologne being similarly pleasant, she had
tried it on her palate and found that it produced agreeable sensations.

It had become a habit. She was conscious of it, but remained indifferent
because she didn't know anything about habits.

So all that sunny afternoon she lay in the chaise-longue, alternately
reading and dreaming, her scented bonbons at her elbow. Later a maid
brought tea; and a little later Duane Mallett was announced. He
sauntered in, a loosely knit, graceful figure, still wearing his
riding-clothes and dusty boots of the morning.

Geraldine Seagrave had had time enough to discover, during the past
winter, that her old playfellow was not at all the kind of man he
appeared to be. Women liked him too easily and he liked them without
effort. There was always some girl in love with him until he was found
kissing another. His tastes were amiably catholic; his caress
instinctively casual. Beauty when responsive touched him. No girl he
knew needed to remain unconsoled.

The majority of women liked him; so did Geraldine Seagrave. The majority
instinctively watched him; so did she. In close acquaintance the man was
a disappointment. It seemed as though there ought to be something deeper
in him than the lightly humourous mockery with which he seemed to regard
his very great talent--a flippancy that veiled always what he said and
did and thought until nobody could clearly understand what he really
thought about anything; and some people doubted that he thought at
all--particularly the thoughtless whom he had carelessly consoled.

Women were never entirely indifferent concerning him; there remained