in boxing-gloves; Maspero—­she was interested, then, in things Egyptian.  “Faust”—­De Maupassant—­D’Annunzio—­Hawthorne, “The Scarlet Letter.”  He took this last book, which was small and bound in white, into his hand.  He had known it once.  He had read it long ago.  Now he opened it, glanced quickly through its pages.  Hester Prynne, Arthur Dimmesdale—­suddenly he remembered the story, the sin of the flesh, the scarlet letter that branded the sin upon the woman’s breast while the man went unpunished.

And Mrs. Chepstow had it, bound in white.

“Are you judging my character by my books?”

A warm and careless voice spoke behind him.  She had come in and was standing close to him, dressed in white, with a black hat, and holding a white parasol in her hand.  In the sunshine she looked even fairer than by night.  Her pale but gleaming hair was covered by a thin veil, which she kept down as she greeted Nigel.

“Not judging,” he said, as he held her hand for a moment.  “Guessing, perhaps, or guessing at.”

“Which is it?  ‘The Scarlet Letter’!  I got it a year ago.  I read it.  And when I had read it, I sent it to be bound in white.”

“Why was that?”

“‘Though your sin shall be as scarlet,’” she quoted.

He was silent, looking at her.

“Let us have tea.”

As she spoke, she went, with her slow and careless walk which Isaacson had noticed, towards the fireplace, and touched the electric bell.  Then she sat down on a sofa close to the cage of the canary-birds, and with her back to the light.

“I suppose you are fearfully busy with engagements,” she continued, as he came to sit down near her.  “Most people are, at this time of year.  One ought to be truly grateful for even five minutes of anybody’s time.  I remember, ages ago, when I was one of the busy ones, I used to expect almost servile thankfulness for any little minute I doled out.  How things change!”

She did not sigh, but laughed, and, without giving him time to speak, added: 

“Which of my other books did you look at?”

“I saw you had Maspero.”

“Oh, I got that simply because I had met you.  It turned my mind towards Egypt, which I have never seen, although I’ve yachted all over the place.  Last night, after we had said good night, I couldn’t sleep; so I sat here and read Maspero for a while, and thought of your Egyptian life.  I didn’t mean to be impertinent.  One has to think of something.”

“Impertinent!”

Her tone, though light, had surely been coloured with apology.

“Well, people are so funny—­now.  I remember the time when lots of them were foolish in the opposite way.  If I thought of them, they seemed to take it as an honour.  But then I wasn’t thirty-eight, and I was in society.”

The German waiter came in with tea.  When he had arranged it and gone out, Nigel said, with a certain diffidence: