"Sometimes one cares for neither," says Xenia Sabaroff, with a tone which in a less lovely woman would have been morose.
"One must suffice very thoroughly to one's self in such a case?"
"Oh, not necessarily."
At that moment there is a little bustle under a very big cedar near at hand; servants are bringing out folding tables, folding chairs, a silver camp-kettle, cakes, fruit, cream, liqueurs, sandwiches, wines, all those items of an afternoon tea on which Brandolin has animadverted with so much disgust in the library an hour before. Lady Usk has chosen to take these murderous compounds out of doors in the west garden. She herself comes out of the house with a train of her guests around her.
"Adieu to rational conversation," says Brandolin, as he rises with regret from his seat under the evergreen helmet.
Xenia Sabaroff is pleased at the expression. She is too handsome for men often to speak to her rationally: they usually plunge headlong into attempts at homage and flattery, of which she is nauseated.
CHAPTER VII.
"How do you like Lord Brandolin?" says Lady Usk, when she can say so unobserved.
"I like him very much," replies Madame Sabaroff. "He is what one would expect him to be from his books; and that is so agreeable,—and so rare."