“I saw Mrs. Parflete to-day. She is beautiful. But she is indiscreet, too. All women worth considering are miracles of imprudence.”
“Haven't I always said so?”
“Then how can you expect us to like you when you are so—so wise?”
“I don't expect you to like me.”
She bit her lip and pretended to check a laugh.
“I suppose you enjoy this room?” she said, glancing round it till her eyes fell on a small crucifix which was nailed to the wall behind his chair; “it is so depressing. You are very perverse. And the odd thing is——“
“Well, what is the odd thing?”
“That you are attracted by Mrs. Parflete. Your style ought to be Saint Clare or Saint Elizabeth. But not at all. You prefer this exquisite, wayward, perfectly dressed, extremely young actress. You give your nature full play in your taste, at all events.”
“You can urge that much in my favour, then?”
“Yes, that much. Oh, she's pretty. But frivolous and light-hearted—as light-hearted as Titania. There! I have been wondering what I could call her. She is Titania in alabaster. Marble is too strong. At first, I thought it might be marble. I have changed my mind since. I suppose you know she will act in this comedy with Castrillon at the d'Alchingens?”