"You are tired of Guy?" I observed.
She shrugged her well-formed shoulders, pursed her lips, and contemplated her rings.
"He has become a little too serious," she said simply.
"And you want to escape him?" I remarked. "Do you know, Ulrica, I believe he really loves you."
"Well, and if he does?"
"I thought you told me, only a couple of months ago, that he was the best-looking man in London, and that you had utterly lost your heart to him."
She laughed.
"I've lost it so many times that I begin to believe I don't nowadays possess that very useful portion of the human anatomy. But," she added, "you pity him, eh? My dear Carmela, you should never pity a man. Not one of them is really worth sympathy. Nineteen out of every twenty are ready to declare love to any good-looking woman with money. Remember your dearest Ernest."
Mention of that name caused me a twinge.
"I have forgotten him!" I cried hotly. "I have forgiven—all that belongs to the past."