“Confound it! Your influence has tended the same way.  You spoil me —­make me think myself a fine fellow.  I suppose one’s wife ought to talk like that—­I don’t dislike it, you know; but if I end by never doing anything at all, I should be confoundedly ashamed of myself.  But the more I think of it, the better satisfied I am that a political career is the best thing for me.  You see, this is the age of political progress—­that before everything.  We English are working out our revolution in a steady and sensible way,—­no shrieking and slaughtering—­we leave that to people who don’t really know what they want, and will never get much to speak of.  We go ahead soberly on the constitutional highway—­with a little hearty swearing to clear the air now and then.”

Lilian laughed.

“Well, I was saying it is a political age, and I think a man ought to go in for the first interest of his time.  What have we to do just now with artistic aims?  The English, at any time, care little or nothing for art; one has to recognize that.  Our task in the world is practical—­to secure all men a sufficiency of beef and beer, and honest freedom.  I like to feel that I am on the advancing wave; I don’t care for your picturesque ponds; they generally have a bad smell.”

The effect of his vigorous talk was manifest in Lilian’s face.  She yielded her spirit to his, was borne whither he would.

“You talk of living in Paris—­why, if you really knew Paris, you would hate the place.  Underneath all this show of civilization, refinement, brilliancy—­I’m glad to say you can’t even guess what it covers.  The town reeks with abominations.  I’m getting sick of it.”

The sincerity of his moral disgust was obvious.  No one knew so well as Lilian the essential purity—­even the puritanism—­of Quarrier’s temper.

“For all that,” he added, merrily, “we’ll go and dine at the restaurant, and then look in at the Francais.  They know how to cook here, and they know how to play the fool—­no denying it.”

When Lilian went forth with him she had once more succeeded in overcoming her despondent mood.  The lights of the Boulevard exercised their wonted effect—­cheering, inspiring.  She pressed his arm, laughed at his mirthful talk; and Denzil looked down into her face with pride and delight in its loveliness.  He had taken especial care to have her dressed in the manner that became his wife; Parisian science had gone to the making of her costume, and its efforts were not wasted.  As they entered the restaurant, many eyes were turned with critical appreciation upon the modest face and figure, as undeniably English, in their way, as Quarrier’s robust manhood.

Denzil’s French was indifferently good, better perhaps than his capacity for picking out from the bill of fare a little dinner which should exalt him in the eyes of waiters.  He went to work, however, with a noble disregard for consequences, whether to digestion or pocket.  Where Lilian was concerned there could be no such thing as extravagance; he gloried in obtaining for her the best of everything that money could command.  The final “Bien, monsieur,” was, after all, sufficiently respectful, and our friend leaned back with the pleasant consciousness of duty performed.