“Her Ladyship’s tastes are more catholic,” the Baron declared dryly. “Yet, after all, Violet, the real philosophy of married life demands something of this sort.”
Violet smiled and fingered her pearls for a minute.
“What the real philosophy of married life may be I do not know,” she said, “but I am perfectly content with our rendering of it. What a fortunate thing, Peter, with your intensely practical turn of mind, that nature endowed you with so much sentiment.”
De Grost gazed reflectively at the cigarette which he had just selected from his case.
“Well,” he remarked, “there have been times when I have cursed myself for a fool, but, on the whole, sentiment keeps many fires burning.”
She leaned towards him and dropped her voice a little. “Tell me,” she begged, “do you ever think of the years we spent together in the country? Do you ever regret?”
He smiled thoughtfully.
“It is a hard question, that,” he admitted. “There were days there which I loved, but there were days, too, when the restlessness came, days when I longed to hear the hum of the city and to hear men speak whose words were of life and death and the great passions. I am not sure, Violet, whether, after all, it is well for one who has lived to withdraw absolutely from the thrill of life.”
She laughed, Softly but gayly.
“I am with you,” she declared, “absolutely. I think that the fairies must have poured into my blood the joy of living for its own sake. I should be an ungrateful woman indeed, if I found anything to complain of, nowadays. Yet there is one thing that troubles me,” she went on, after a moment’s pause.