women—­no!  And especially she did not want to know any English women in the same situation as herself.  Lonely?  Impossible!  Bored?  Impossible!  She had an establishment.  She had a civil list.  Her days passed like an Arabian dream.  She never had an unfilled moment, and when each day was over she always remembered little things which she had meant to do and had not found time to do.

She was a superb sleeper, and arose at noon.  Three o’clock usually struck before her day had fairly begun—­unless, of course, she happened to be very busy, in which case she would be ready for contact with the world at the lunch-hour.  Her main occupation was to charm, allure, and gratify a man; for that she lived.  Her distractions were music, the reading of novels, Le Journal, and Les Grandes Modes.  And for the war she knitted.  In her new situation it was essential that she should do something for the war.  Therefore she knitted, being a good knitter, and her knitting generally lay about.

She popped into the dining-room to see if the table was well set for dinner.  It was, but in order to show that Marie did not know everything, she rearranged somewhat the flowers in the central bowl.  Then she returned to the drawing-room, and sat down at the piano and waited.  The instant of arrival approached.  Gilbert’s punctuality was absolute, always had been; sometimes it alarmed her.  She could not have to wait more than a minute or two, according to the inexactitude of her clock....  The bell rang, and simultaneously she began to play a five-finger exercise.  Often in the old life she had executed upon him this innocent subterfuge, to make him think she practised the piano to a greater extent than she actually did, that indeed she was always practising.  It never occurred to her that he was not deceived.

Hear Marie fly to the front door!  See Christine’s face, see her body, as in her pale, bright gown she peeps round the half-open door of the drawing-room!  She lives, then.  Her eyes sparkle for the giver of all good, for the adored, and her brow is puckered for him, and the jewels on her hand burn for him, and every pleat of her garments visible and invisible is pleated for him.  She is a child.  She has snatched up a chocolate, and put it between her teeth, and so she offers the half of it to him, smiling, silent.  She is a child, but she is also a woman intensely skilled in her art....

“Monster!” she said.  “Come this way.”  And she led him down the tunnel to the bedroom.  There, in a corner of the bathroom, stood an antique closed toilet-stand, such as was used by men in the days before splashing and sousing were invented.  She had removed it from the drawing-room.

“Open it,” she commanded.

He obeyed.  Its little compartments, which had been empty, were filled with a man’s toilet instruments—­brushes, file, scissors, shaving-soap (his own brand), a safety-razor, &c.  The set was complete.  She had known exactly the requirements.