Juliet smiled, but she did not explain.  She felt that she was obeying Wingrave’s wishes.

“I should have recognized him anywhere,” she answered simply.  “I wonder what they are talking about.  She seems so interested, and he looks so bored.”

Aynesworth looked at his watch.  It was barely ten o’clock.

“I am very glad to see him here this evening,” he remarked.

“I should like so much,” she said, still gazing at them earnestly, “to know that they are talking about.”

. . . . . . . . . . .

“So you will not tell me,” the Marchioness murmured, ceasing for a moment the graceful movements of her fan, and looking at him steadily.  “You refuse me this—­almost the first thing I have ever asked you?”

“It is scarcely,” Wingrave objected, “a reasonable question.”

“Between you and me,” she murmured, “such punctiliousness is scarcely necessary—­is it?”

He withstood the attack of those wonderful eyes lifted swiftly to his, and answered her gravely.

“You are Lady Ruth’s friend,” he remarked.  “Probably, therefore, she will tell you all about it.”

The Marchioness laughed softly, yet with something less than mirth.

“Friends,” she exclaimed, “Lady Ruth and I?  There was never a woman in this world who was less my friend—­especially now!”

He asked for no explanation of her last words, but in a moment or two she vouchsafed it.  She leaned a little forward, her eyes flashed softly through the semi-darkness.

“Lady Ruth is afraid,” she said quietly, “that I might take you away from her.”

“My dear lady,” he protested, “the slight friendship between Lady Ruth and myself is not of the nature to engender such a fear.”

She shrugged her beautiful shoulders.  Her hands were toying with the rope of pearls which hung from her neck.  She bent over them, as though examining the color of the stones.

“How long have you known Ruth?” she asked quietly.

He looked at her steadfastly.  He could not be sure whether it was his fancy, or whether indeed there was some hidden meaning in her question.

“Since I came to live in England,” he answered.

“Ah!”

There was a moment’s silence.  Then with a little wave of her hands and a brilliant smile, she figuratively dismissed the subject.

“We waste time,” she remarked lightly, “and we may have callers at any moment.  I will ask you no more questions save those which the conventions may permit you to answer truthfully.  We can’t depart from our code, can we, even for the sake of an inquisitive woman?”

“I can assure you—­” he began.

“But I will have no assurances,” she interrupted smilingly.  “I am going to talk of other things.  I am going to ask you a ridiculous question.  Are you fond of music?—­seriously!”

“I believe so,” he answered.  “Why?”