“It’s charming of you to come.  I’ve heard so much of you from Mr. Kynnersley.  Do sit down.”

Her voice was lazy and languorous and caressing like the purr of a great cat; and there was something exotic in her accent, something seductive, something that ought to be prohibited by the police.  She sank into her low chair by the fire, indicating one for me square with the hearthrug.  Dale, so as to leave me a fair conversational field with the lady, established himself on the sofa some distance off, and began to talk with a Chow dog, with whom he was obviously on terms of familiarity.  Madame Brandt make a remark about the Chow dog’s virtues, to which I politely replied.  She put him through several tricks.  I admired his talent.  She declared her affections to be divided between Adolphus (that was the Chow dog’s name) and an ouistiti, who was confined to bed for the present owing to the evil qualities of the November air.  For the first time I blessed the English climate.  I hate little monkeys.  I also felt a queer disappointment.  A woman like that ought to have caught an ourang-outang.

She guessed my thought in an uncanny manner, and smiled, showing strong, white, even teeth—­the most marvellous teeth I have ever beheld—­so even as to constitute almost a deformity.

“I’m fonder of bigger animals,” she said.  “I was born among them.  My father was a lion tamer, so I know all the ways of beasts.  I love bears—­I once trained one to drive a cart—­but”—­with a sigh—­“you can’t keep bears in Cadogan Gardens.”

“You may get hold of a human one now and then,” said Dale.

“I’ve no doubt Madame Brandt could train him to dance to whatever tune she played,” said I.

She turned her dark golden eyes lazily, slumberously on me.

“Why do you say that, Mr. de Gex?”

This was disconcerting.  Why had I said it?  For no particular reason, save to keep up a commonplace conversation in which I took no absorbing interest.  It was a direct challenge.  Young Dale stopped playing with the Chow dog and grinned.  It behooved me to say something.  I said it with a bow and a wave of my hand: 

“Because, though your father was a lion-tamer, your mother was a woman.”

She appeared to reflect for a moment; then addressing Dale: 

“The answer doesn’t amount to a ha’porth of cats’-meat, but you couldn’t have got out of it like that.”

I was again disconcerted, but I remarked that he would learn in time when my mentorship was over and I handed him, a finished product, to society.

“How long will that be?” she asked.

“I don’t know.  Are you anxious for his immediate perfecting?”

Her shoulders gave what in ordinary women would have been a shrug:  with her it was a slow ripple.  I vow if her neck had been bare one could have seen it undulate beneath the skin.

“What is perfection?”

“Can you ask?” laughed Dale.  “Behold!” And he pointed to me.