They laughed and slipped back to talking of earlier things.  She urged him to put off his sailing—­there were so many things they might do together:  sight-seeing and excursions—­and she could perhaps show him some of the private collections he hadn’t seen, the ones it was hard to get admitted to.  This instantly roused his attention, and after naming one or two collections he had already seen she hit on one he had found inaccessible and was particularly anxious to visit.  “There’s an Ingres there that’s one of the things I came over to have a look at; but I was told there was no use trying.”

“Oh, I can easily manage it:  the Duke’s Raymond’s uncle.”  It gave her a peculiar satisfaction to say it:  she felt as though she were taking a surreptitious revenge on her husband.  “But he’s down in the country this week,” she continued, “and no one—­not even the family—­is allowed to see the pictures when he’s away.  Of course his Ingres are the finest in France.”

She ran it off glibly, though a year ago she had never heard of the painter, and did not, even now, remember whether he was an Old Master or one of the very new ones whose names one hadn’t had time to learn.

Moffatt put off sailing, saw the Duke’s Ingres under her guidance, and accompanied her to various other private galleries inaccessible to strangers.  She had lived in almost total ignorance of such opportunities, but now that she could use them to advantage she showed a surprising quickness in picking up “tips,” ferreting out rare things and getting a sight of hidden treasures.  She even acquired as much of the jargon as a pretty woman needs to produce the impression of being well-informed; and Moffatt’s sailing was more than once postponed.

They saw each other almost daily, for she continued to come and go as she pleased, and Raymond showed neither surprise nor disapproval.  When they were asked to family dinners she usually excused herself at the last moment on the plea of a headache and, calling up Indiana or Bertha Shallum, improvised a little party at the Nouveau Luxe; and on other occasions she accepted such invitations as she chose, without mentioning to her husband where she was going.

In this world of lavish pleasures she lost what little prudence the discipline of Saint Desert had inculcated.  She could never be with people who had all the things she envied without being hypnotized into the belief that she had only to put her hand out to obtain them, and all the unassuaged rancours and hungers of her early days in West End Avenue came back with increased acuity.  She knew her wants so much better now, and was so much more worthy of the things she wanted!