and women, he held the view that marriage should be based on mutual love, but that when from a marriage love had disappeared, or, been found never to have really existed—­so that it was manifestly not based on love—­you must not admit it.  There it was, and the love was not—­but there you were, and must continue to be!  Thus you had it both ways, and were not tarred with cynicism, realism, and immorality like the French.  Moreover, it was necessary in the interests of property.  He knew that she knew that they both knew there was no love between them, but he still expected her not to admit in words or conduct such a thing, and he could never understand what she meant when she talked of the hypocrisy of the English.  He said: 

“Whom have you got at ‘The Shelter’ next week?”

Annette went on touching her lips delicately with salve—­he always wished she wouldn’t do that.

“Your sister Winifred, and the Car-r-digans”—­she took up a tiny stick of black—­“and Prosper Profond.”

“That Belgian chap?  Why him?”

Annette turned her neck lazily, touched one eyelash, and said: 

“He amuses Winifred.”

“I want some one to amuse Fleur; she’s restive.”

“R-restive?” repeated Annette.  “Is it the first time you see that, my friend?  She was born r-restive, as you call it.”

Would she never get that affected roll out of her r’s?

He touched the dress she had taken off, and asked: 

“What have you been doing?”

Annette looked at him, reflected in her glass.  Her just-brightened lips smiled, rather full, rather ironical.

“Enjoying myself,” she said.

“Oh!” answered Soames glumly.  “Ribbandry, I suppose.”

It was his word for all that incomprehensible running in and out of shops that women went in for.  “Has Fleur got her summer dresses?”

“You don’t ask if I have mine.”

“You don’t care whether I do or not.”

“Quite right.  Well, she has; and I have mine—­terribly expensive.”

“H’m!” said Soames.  “What does that chap Profond do in England?”

Annette raised the eyebrows she had just finished.

“He yachts.”

“Ah!” said Soames; “he’s a sleepy chap.”

“Sometimes,” answered Annette, and her face had a sort of quiet enjoyment.  “But sometimes very amusing.”

“He’s got a touch of the tar-brush about him.”

Annette stretched herself.

“Tar-brush?” she said.  “What is that?  His mother was Armenienne.”

“That’s it, then,” muttered Soames.  “Does he know anything about pictures?”

“He knows about everything—­a man of the world.”

“Well, get some one for Fleur.  I want to distract her.  She’s going off on Saturday to Val Dartie and his wife; I don’t like it.”

“Why not?”

Since the reason could not be explained without going into family history, Soames merely answered: