"But Caryll will never believe what he says," the duchess offered comfortingly. "Men never do."
As she spoke the doors slid apart and the six men straggled in in procession, scattering slowly like a flock of settling birds. Each married man tried to avoid his wife and rather missed the mark.
Caryll Carleigh walked to where Mrs. Darling sat, circled her and took the other end of the red tufted thing that was made for two. She just smiled.
All the rest began to talk at once. The air warmed with: "They made it a point to drive through once a year and preserve the right of way—" "He said: 'Don't hurry!' but she took it and the branch caught her and carried her off—" "Oh, no, it wasn't that winter; it was when I was in Malta—" and so on, and so on.
Sir Caryll lifted his eyes and lowered his voice. "Do you know, I was sure my heart was dead. I was certain of it. But now I begin to doubt."
She smiled still, staring straight before her.
"Do look at me," he pleaded. "Your eyes are so wonderful. Like an elixir. They give me back all that I have lost. Do look at me."
"Do you know," she asked, complying with his request, "that I'm considered a very bad woman?"
"I don't believe it."
"Oh, but I am. You ask Lord Kneedrock. He'll tell you. He has a hash about a reincarnated tiger that he tells every one. He calls my hands claws."