“Because you love them?”

“No.”

“C’est dommage aussi.  You should love someone.  It is much ’ealthier.  I love everyone.  Per’aps I love too much.  I make experiments.  You make experiments—­and sometimes leetle mistakes. Comme nous autres.  ’Ze operation was a grand succes—­but ze patient die.’  I know.  Some of mine die too.”

“Prince Frederick, for instance?”

She lifted the long chain of pearls about her neck and considered them dispassionately.

“That canard!  You think ’e give me these? Ce pauvre Fredi!  ’E couldn’t ’ave given me a chain of pink coral.  I could ’ave bought ’im and ’is funny little kingdom with my dress-money.  ’E shoot ’imself.  Well, that was ’is affaire.  ’E ’ave no doubt explain ’imself to ze bon Dieu, who is particulaire about that sort of thing.  As to ze old pearls—­my agent ’e set that story going—­pour encourager les autres.”

“Cosgrave among them?” he suggested.

“Monsieur Cosgrave?  We won’t talk about ’im just now, if you please.  ‘E make me ver’ cross.  I ‘ate to be cross.  It is ver’ difficult to ’ave a good time with English people.  They are so damn thorough.  When they want to go to ze devil they want to go ze whole way.”

“Perhaps that’s why I’m here,” he said ironically.

“Voyons—­voyons, c’est ennuyeux——­” She broke off and gave a little husky, good-natured laugh.  “I remember.  You think me a bad woman.  But I am not a bad woman at all.  Ze leetle girls in ze chorus—­they are sometimes bad because they want things they ’ave no right to ’ave.  They are just leetle girls with nothing to give, and they want to live ze big life and they tumble into ze gutter.  They are ze ginger-beer who pretend to be ze champagne. Mais mot—­I am ze real champagne.  I make things seem jolly that are not jolly at all—­ze woman who sit next you at dinner—­ze food—­ze bills who wait for you at ’ome—­life.  If you take too much of me you ’ave ze ’eadache. Enfin, ce n’est pas ma faute.  I ’ave so much to give.  I ’ave so much life.  One life—­one country—­one ’usband is not enough.  But I am not bad.  If there was any sense in things they would give me an order and a nice long title—­Grande Maitresse de la Vie—­Princesse de Joie.”  She lifted her eyebrows at him to see whether he appreciated the joke.  “Ah well—­no.  I talk too much about myself.  Tell me instead what you think of my leetle ’ome. C’est joli, n’cest-ce-pas?” She waved towards the Chinese embroideries and added, with a child’s absolute content:  “I like it.”

“I suppose you do,” he retorted.  “It reminds me of a quaint old custom I read about somewhere.  When our early ancestors were building a particularly important house they buried a few of the less important citizens alive under the foundations.  It seemed to have a beneficial influence on the building process.”