‘What’s the chewing?’

‘Manners,’ she said, laughing—­’that you think so little of.  Whether the food’s agreeable or not, manners help it down.’

‘Manners!—­between husband and wife?’ he said, scornfully.

‘But certainly!’ She lifted her beautiful brows for emphasis.  ’Show me any persons, please, that want them more!’

‘The people I’ve been living among,’ said Fenwick, with sharp persistence, ’haven’t got time for fussing about manners—­in the sense you mean.  Life’s too hard.’

A flush of bright colour sprang into her face.  But she held her ground.

’What do you suppose I mean?  I don’t meant court trains and courtesies—­I really don’t.’

Fenwick was silent a moment, and then said—­aggressively—­’ We can’t all of us have the same chances—­as Mr. Welby, for instance.’

Madame de Pastourelles looked at him in astonishment.  What an extraordinary obsession!  They seemed not to be able to escape from Arthur Welby’s name:  yet it never cropped up without producing some sign of irritation in this strange young man.  Poor Arthur!—­who had always shown himself so ready to make friends, whenever the two men met—­as they often did—­in the St. James’s Square drawing-room.  Fenwick’s antagonism, indeed, had been plain to her for some time.  It was natural, she supposed; he was clearly very sensitive on the subject of his own humble origin and bringing-up; but she sighed that a perverse youth should so mismanage his opportunities.

As to ‘chances,’ she declared rather tartly that they had nothing to do with it.  It was natural to Arthur Welby to make himself agreeable.

‘Yes—­like all other kinds of aristocrats,’ said Fenwick, grimly.

Madame de Pastourelles frowned.

’Of all the words in the dictionary—­that word is the most detestable!’ she declared.  ’It ought to be banished.  Well, thank goodness, it is generally banished.’

’That’s only because we all like to hide our heads in the sand—­you who possess the privileges—­and we who envy them!’

‘I vow I don’t possess any privileges at all,’ she said, with defiance.

’You say so, because you breathe them—­live in them—­like the air—­without knowing it,’ said Fenwick, also trying to speak lightly.  Then he added, suddenly putting down his palette and brushes, while his black eyes lightened—­’And so does Mr. Welby.  You can see from his pictures that he doesn’t know anything about common, coarse people—­real people—­who make up the world.  He paints wax, and calls it life; and you—­’

‘Go on!—­please go on!’

‘I shall only make a fool of myself,’ he said, taking up his brushes again.

‘Not at all.  And I praise humbug?—­and call it manners?’

He paused, then blurted out—­’I wouldn’t say anything rude to you for the world!’

She smiled—­a smile that turned all the delicate severity of her face to sweetness.  ’That’s very nice of you.  But if you knew Mr. Welby better, you’d never want to say anything rude to him either!’