awed whisper. "Is that what you mean?"

Mrs. Germain showed him her soft brown orbs, which for two seasons had
been said to be the finest pair of dark eyes in London. "Yes," she said,
"I do mean that. How clever of you to guess!"

Chevenix bowed to her. "Not at all," he said. "I'm quite good at that kind
of thing. You have to be, if you knock about. Besides, that's the whole
point. Bless you! He would just as soon have married Diana of the
Ephesians. He said so. I heard him. He would have thought it an insult to
hint at it. Didn't I tell you that he was a poet?"

"Yes," the lady said quickly. "You did. But I suppose poets occasionally
marry."

"Not that sort," Chevenix pronounced, with a shake of the head. "At least,
they don't marry the right person. They never do. Or there are two or
three persons. Look at Shelley. Look at Dante. I happen to know all about
both of 'em. Senhouse drank 'em up--and gave 'em out like steam. He
thought no end of Dante and Shelley. As a matter of fact, he didn't
believe in marriage, as a game--as a kind of institution, you know. He
thought it devilish wrong--and said so--and that's where the trouble was.
Marry Sancie! I wish to heaven he had. There'd have been no trouble at
all. They were made for each other. She loved his fun--and was easy with
him, you see. She was queerish, too--a shy young bird; but she was quite
at home with him. No, no. The trouble really began with him putting her
out of conceit with marriage. And then she didn't care for him in that
sort of way, then. And then--well, the less said the better."

"Oh," said Mrs. Germain, absorbed by the devolutions of the tale. "Oh!"