Ah, the sense of relief to feel that he was not reproaching her for anything, not impeaching her by an injured tone and manner, which so many other men had assumed with infinitely less right or cause than he!

“I came back thirty-six hours ago, and I stay at the will of the master-mind,” he answered.

The old whimsical look came into her face, the old sudden flash which always lighted her eyes when a daring phrase was born in her mind, and she instantly retorted: 

“The master-mind—­how self-centred you are!”

Whatever had happened, certainly the old touch of intellectual diablerie was still hers, and he laughed good-humoredly.  Yes, she might be this or that, she might be false or true, she might be one who had sold herself for mammon, and had not paid tribute to the one great natural principle of being, to give life to the world, man and woman perpetuating man and woman; but she was stimulating and delightful without effort.

“And what are you doing these days?” he asked.  “One never hears of you now.”

This was cruel, but she knew that he was “inciting her to riot,” and she replied:  “That’s because you are so secluded—­in your kindergarten for misfit statesmen.  Abandon knowledge, all ye who enter there!”

It was the old flint and steel, but the sparks were not bright enough to light the tinder of emotion.  She knew it, for he was cool and buoyant and really unconcerned, and she was feverish—­and determined.

“You still make life worth living,” he answered, gaily.

“It is not an occupation I would choose,” she replied.  “It is sure to make one a host of enemies.”

“So many of us make our careers by accident,” he rejoined.

“Certainly I made mine not by design,” she replied instantly; and there was an undercurrent of meaning in it which he was not slow to notice; but he disregarded her first attempt to justify, however vaguely, her murderous treatment of him.

“But your career is not yet begun,” he remarked.

Her eyes flashed—­was it anger, or pique, or hurt, or merely the fire of intellectual combat?

“I am married,” she said, defiantly, in direct retort.

“That is not a career—­it is casual exploration in a dark continent,” he rejoined.

“Come and say that to my husband,” she replied, boldly.  Suddenly a thought lighted her eyes.  “Are you by any chance free to-morrow night to dine with us—­quite, quite en famille’ Rudyard will be glad to see you—­and hear you,” she added, teasingly.

He was amused.  He felt how much he had really piqued her and provoked her by showing her so plainly that she had lost every vestige of the ancient power over him; and he saw no reason why he should not spend an evening where she sparkled.

“I am free, and will come with pleasure,” he replied.

“That is delightful,” she rejoined, “and please bring a box of bons mots with you.  But you will come, then—?” She was going to add, “Ian,” but she paused.