He wondered what his wife really thought of the Muratas, and during the return to their hotel, he asked,—­

“Well, little girl, do you want to go back again and live at Auteuil?”

She shook her head.

“But it is nice to think you have always got an extra home in Paris, isn’t it?” he went on, fishing for an avowal that home was in his arms only, a kind of conversation which was the wine of life to him at that period.

“No,” she answered with a little shudder, “I don’t call that home.”

Geoffrey’s conventionality was a little bit shocked at this lack of affection; he was also disappointed at not getting exactly the expected answer.

“Why, what was wrong with it?” he asked.

“Oh, it was not pretty or comfortable,” she said, “they were so afraid to spend money.  When I wash my hands, they say, ’Do not use too much soap; it is waste.’”

* * * * *

Asako was like a little prisoner released into the sunlight.  She dreaded the idea of being thrust back into darkness again.

In this new life of hers anything would have made her happy, that is to say, anything new, anything given to her, anything good to eat or drink, anything soft and shimmery to wear, anything—­so long as her big husband was with her.  He was the most fascinating of all her novelties.  He was much nicer than Lady Everington; for he was not always saying, “Don’t,” or making clever remarks, which she could not understand.  He gave her absolutely her own way, and everything that she admired.  He reminded her of an old Newfoundland dog who had been her slave when she was a little girl.

He used to play with her as he would have played with a child, watching her as she tried on her finery, hiding things for her to find, holding them over her head and making her jump for them like a puppy, arranging her ornaments for her in those continual private exhibitions which took up so much of her time.  Then she would ring the bell and summon all the chambermaids within call to come and admire; and Geoffrey would stand among all these womenfolk, listening to the chorus of “Mon Dieu!” and “Ah, que c’est beau!” and “Ah, qu’elle est gentille!” like some Hector who had strayed into the gynaeceum of Priam’s palace.  He felt a little foolish, perhaps, but very happy, happy in his wife’s naive happiness and affection, which did not require any mental effort to understand, nor that panting pursuit on which he had embarked more than once in order to keep up with the witty flirtatiousness of some of the beauties of Lady Everington’s salon.