“Oh, how naughty of papa,” said Theodora, “to be so late!  Are you very hungry, Josiah?  Shall we begin without them?”

But at that moment, with rustling silks and delicate perfume, the widow and Captain Fitzgerald came in at the door and joined the party.

“I am just too sorry,” the lady said, gayly.  “It is all Captain Fitzgerald’s fault—­he would try to restrain me from buying what I wanted, and so it made me obstinate and I had to stay right there and order half the shop.”

“How I understand you!” sympathized Lord Bracondale.  “I know just that feeling of wanting forbidden fruit.  It makes the zest of life.”

He had foreseen the disposition of the party, and by sitting in the outside corner seat at the end knew he would have Theodora almost en tete-a-tete, once they were all seated along the velvet sofa beyond Josiah Brown.

“What do you do with yourself all the time here?” he asked, lowering his voice to that deep note which only carries to the ear it is intended for.  “May one ever see you again except at a chance meal like this?”

“I don’t know,” said Theodora.  “I walk up and down in the side allees of the Bois in the morning with my husband, and when he has had his sleep, after dejeuner, we drive nearly all the afternoon, and we have tea, at the Pre Catalan and drive again until about seven, and then we come in and dine, and I go to bed very early.  Josiah is not strong enough yet for late hours or theatres.”

“It sounds supernaturally gay for Paris!” said Lord Bracondale; and then he felt a brute when he saw the cloud in the blue eyes.

“No, it is not gay,” she said, simply.  “But the flowers are beautiful, and the green trees and the chestnut blossoms and the fine air here, and there is a little stream among the trees which laughs to itself as it runs, and all these things say something to me.”

He felt rebuked—­rebuked and interested.

“I would like to see them all with you,” he said.

That was one of his charms—­directness.  He did not insinuate often; he stated facts.

“You would find it all much too monotonous,” she answered.  “You would tire of them after the first time.  And you could if you liked, too, because I suppose you are free, being a man, and can choose your own life,” and she sighed unconsciously.

And there came to Hector Bracondale the picture of her life—­sacrificed, no doubt, to others’ needs.  He seemed to see the long years tied to Josiah Brown, the cramping of her soul, the dreary desolation of it.  Then a tenderness came over him, a chivalrous tenderness unfelt by him towards women now for many a long day.

“I wonder if I can choose my life,” he said, and he looked into her eyes.

“Why can you not?” She hesitated.  “And may I ask you, too, what you do with yourself here?”

He evaded the question; he suddenly realized that his days were not more amusing than hers, although they were filled up with racing and varied employments—­while the thought of his nights sickened him.