‘I do not really see, my dear Napraxine,’ she said languidly, ‘what possible connection singed sheep and burning heifers have to do with the rumours which—you say—society has been so good as to set on foot concerning me. It is unfortunate that your ideas are always so entangled that it is very difficult to follow them. But I imagine, so far as I can evolve anything from such a chaos, that what you intend me to understand by all this is, that because one summer night in Russia long ago you were witness of a courageous action on the part of—your friend—you would be sorry to suppose that he would commit one which would make him your enemy: is that so?’
Napraxine made a gesture of assent.
‘I cannot express myself well,’ he murmured. ‘But you are so clever you can always understand——’
‘To sort the black and the white beans set to Psyche for a task were easier,’ quoted his wife, with her enigmatical smile. ‘Still, if I interpret your meaning aright, it is that. Pray, then, let your mind be at rest; the Countess Othmar is not neglected that I know of, and if she be, je n’y suis pour rien.’
Then she poured out her chocolate. Napraxine was reassured by her indifferent manner, and did not observe that the major part of his interrogations was still left unanswered.
‘I was sure of it,’ he said with warmth. ‘He is very much in love with her, is he not?’
She gave a slight, most eloquent gesture, indicative of absolute ignorance and of as absolute indifference.
‘Ah! that is another matter which I could not presume to decide,’ she answered with a little yawn. ‘He has been married fourteen months; men are not usually in love so long as that.’
‘I——’ began Napraxine: then he stammered, paused, and coloured, afraid of her ridicule.
‘Yes; you were,’ said his wife, serenely. ‘But it is very unusual; it is very undesirable. I do not think it contributed to your comfort; it certainly did not to mine.’