"Perhaps only because the right teacher was not at hand to give you the lesson," says Sir Francis, audaciously.
"The right teacher," says Lady Jean, with a little mocking laugh. "There is no such teacher for me, my dear Sir Francis. I can defy fate."
"I wish you would tell me how," says Sir Francis. "The recipe might be useful."
"You have had your attack of fever, so you are safe," she answers, laughingly. "No, my recipe is too valuable to be parted with. Now, you have talked to me long enough to-night. Go away and entertain some one else."
"I don't want to talk to any one else," says Sir Francis, doggedly. "Why do you send me away? You are not afraid of Mrs. Grundy, surely?"
"Oh no. She and I are the best of friends. Afraid?—well, I don't think I have any need to be afraid. Every one is talked about nowadays—either for what they do or what they don't do. And it is so much easier to say a thing than disprove it. It is just like a lovely complexion—every one can say you paint, but every one can't see you wash your face. Society never believes in the lovely complexion, and yet wouldn't enter a dressing-room if it could, for fear of finding there was nothing but—soap and water—after all!"
"But all this is no reason why I am to go away now," complains Sir Francis, sulkily.
"Can't you trace the analogy? I don't want to make your pretty wife jealous. I don't want people to talk. I—I don't want to give you a monopoly of my company. These are reasons enough, surely."
"Your reasons are admirable—all except the first. Lauraine jealous! You might as well expect the Venus of Milo to come down from its pedestal, and walk through a modern drawing-room."
"Marriage does not seem an attractive menu after all, does it?" says Lady Jean, musingly. "Two years, and you have done with the olives and sweetmeats, and come to the plain ungarnished rôti. The rôti is much more wholesome, though."