“Comtesse,” he said, and his eyes swam, “fiendish little temptress, put up that hair.  And come, I will tell you about A Digit of the Moon.”

I pretended to feel greatly snubbed, and in a minute had twisted it to my head again.

“It is a queer title,” I said.

Antony talked a little faster than usual.  It seemed as if he was breathing rather quickly.

“I shall give you this book.  It only came out last year.  I think it is one of the most delightful things that ever was written.  You must read it carefully.”  And he put it into my hand.  “The description, in the beginning, of the ingredients which God used to create woman is quite exquisite.  Listen, I will read it to you.”  And he took the book again.

His voice is the most refined and the tones are deep.  One cannot say what quality there is in some voices and pronunciation that makes them so attractive.  If Antony were an ugly man he still would be alluring with such a voice as his.  I listened intently until the last word.

“It is, indeed, a beautiful description,” I said.

“You probably are all those things, Comtesse, except, perhaps, the ‘chattering of the monkeys.’  You don’t speak much.”

“And do you feel like ’man’?”

“That I cannot do with you, or without you?  Yes, especially the latter part of the sentence.”

I got up from the sofa and looked about the room.  It seemed as if we were getting on dangerous ground.

“How comfortable men make their habitations!  And I like the smell,” I said, sniffing.  “The pine-logs, I suppose.”

“And the cedar panelling, perhaps, scents the place a little when it gets hot.”

“You have thousands of books here.”  And I looked round at the high shelves between the long windows.  “And what a nice piano!  How happy you must be!”

“I should have been—­and am sometimes, still,” he said.  “The Duke had a good room, too, at Myrlton.”

I sat down on the sofa again.  Antony had risen and leaned against the mantel-piece.  He was idly pulling the ears of Bedevere, who, sitting there, reached up into his hand.  I never could have imagined dogs so big as are these three.

“Of course you went to Myrlton.  I had forgotten.  The Duke made love to you, I suppose?”

“Why should you suppose?”

“Because I saw signs of it at Harley.  Don’t you remember how I carried you off to the woods while he fetched your umbrella?”

I laughed.

“Well, did he make love to you?”

“Why should you think any man would make love to me?  It is ridiculous.  You seem to forget I have only been married five months.  Even in a well-bred world, where they have gone back to nature, they don’t begin as soon as that, do they?”

“You are prevaricating.  He did make love to you, then?”

“Lady Grenellen had brought an heiress there for him, and he was busy with her.”