She had hitherto been sweetness itself to him, enlivening his lonely existence, shining suddenly upon his self-contained nature with a brilliancy that made him feel dull and tongue-tied.

Already, however, he was beginning to discover certain small differences, not so much of opinion as of thought, between Etta and himself.  She attached an importance to social function, to social opinion, to social duties, which he in no wise understood.  Invitations were showered upon them.  A man who is a prince and prefers to drop the title need not seek popularity in London.  The very respectable reader probably knows as well as his humble servant, the writer, that in London there is always a social circle just a little lower than one’s own which opens its doors with noble, disinterested hospitality, and is prepared to lick the blacking from any famous foot.

These invitations Etta accepted eagerly.  Some women hold it little short of a crime to refuse an invitation, and go through life regretting that there is only one evening to each day.  To Paul these calls were nothing new.  His secretary had hitherto drawn a handsome salary for doing little more than refuse such.

It was in Etta’s nature to be somewhat carried away by glitter.  A great ball-room, brilliant illumination, music, flowers, and diamonds had an effect upon her which she enjoyed in anticipation.  Her eyes gleamed brightly on reading the mere card of invitation.  Some dull and self-contained men are only to be roused by the clatter and whirl of a battle-field, and this stirs them into brilliancy, changing them to new men.  Etta, always brilliant, always bright, exceeded herself on her battle-field—­a great social function.

Since their marriage she had never been so beautiful, her eyes had never been so sparkling, her color so brilliant as at this moment when she asked her husband to let her use her title.  Hers was the beauty that blooms not for one man alone, but for the multitude; that feeds not on the love of one, but on the admiration of many.  The murmur of the man in the street who turned and stared into her carriage was more than the devotion of her husband.

“A foreign title,” answered Paul, “is nothing in England.  I soon found that out at Eton and at Trinity.  It was impossible there.  I dropped it, and I have never taken it up again.”

“Yes, you old stupid, and you have never taken the place you are entitled to, in consequence.”

“What place?  May I button that?”

“Thanks.”

She held out her arm while he, with fingers much too large for such dainty work, buttoned her glove.

“The place in society,” she answered.

“Oh; does that matter?  I never thought of it.”

“Of course it matters,” answered the lady, with an astonished little laugh. (It is wonderful what an importance we attach to that which has been dearly won.) “Of course it matters,” answered Etta; “more than—­well, more than any thing.”