"I can't. You pretend to know a woman, and you ask her coldly to explain to you the attraction of the man she loves, to dissect it. I won't try to."
"But," he said, with now a sort of joking persistence, which was only a mask for an almost irritable curiosity, "I want to know."
"And you shall. Maurice and I are dining to-night at Caminiti's in Peathill Street, just off Regent Street. Come and meet us there, and we'll all three spend the evening together. Half-past eight, of course no evening dress, and the most delicious Turkish coffee in London."
"Does Monsieur Delarey like Turkish coffee?"
"Loves it."
"Intelligently?"
"How do you mean?"
"Does he love it inherently, or because you do?"
"You can find that out to-night."
"I shall come."