troublesome optimism or personal energy, and had almost come to
believe that she was to him what the end of the rainbow is to the
idealist. In marrying Alice he had followed the path of least
resistance. She was young, pretty and charming, and had been very
much in love with him. Also it pleased his mother, and she had been
worth pleasing. He gave his wife all that she could possibly need,
except very much of himself. She was a perfectly dear little soul.

Joan only kept him waiting about fifteen minutes. With perfect
patience he stood in front of an Italian mirror in the drawing-room,
smoking a cigarette through a long tortoise-shell holder. He
regarded himself with keen and friendly interest, not in the least
surprised that his wife's little friend from the country so
evidently liked him. He found that he looked up to his best form,
murmured a word of praise for the manner in which his evening coat
was cut and smiled once or twice in order to have the satisfaction
of getting a glimpse of his peculiarly good teeth. Then he laughed,
called himself a conceited ass and went over to examine a rather
virile sketch of a muscular, deep-chested young man in rowing
costume which occupied an inconspicuous place among many well-chosen
pictures. He recognized Martin, whom he had seen several times
following the hounds, and tried to remember if Alice had told him
whether Joan had run away with this strenuous young fellow or been
run away with by him. There was much difference between the two
methods.

He heard nothing, but caught the scent of Peau d'Espagne. It carried
his mind back to a charming little suite in the Hotel de Crillon in
Paris. He turned and found Joan standing in the doorway, watching
him.