“These abnormal people are so interesting!” she was wont to say.  “These prodigies and things!  I love them!  They’re often quite ugly and have rude manners—­Beethoven used to eat with his fingers I believe; wasn’t it wonderful of him!  Such a relief from the conventional way!  When I was quite a girl I used to adore a man in Paris who played the ’cello divinely—­a perfect marvel!—­but he wouldn’t comb his hair or blow his nose properly—­and it wasn’t very nice!—­not that it mattered much, he was such a wonderful artist!  Oh yes, I know! it wouldn’t have lessened his genius to have wiped his nose with a handkerchief instead of—! well!—­ perhaps we’d better not mention it!” And she would laugh charmingly and again murmur, “These deaf abnormal people!”

With Innocent, however, she was somewhat put off her usual line of conduct; the girl was too graceful and easy-mannered to be called “abnormal” or eccentric; she was perfectly modest, simple and unaffected, and the Duchess was a trifle disappointed that she was not ill-dressed, frowsy, frumpish and blue-spectacled.

“She’s so young too!” thought her Grace, half crossly—­“Almost a child!—­and not in the least ‘bookish.’  It seems quite absurd that such a baby-looking creature should be actually a genius, and famous at twenty!  Simply amazing!”

And she watched the little “lion” or lioness of the evening with keen interest and curiosity, whimsically vexed that it did not roar, snort, or make itself as noticeable as certain other animals of the literary habitat whom she had occasionally entertained.  Just then a mirthful, mellow voice spoke close beside her.

“Where is the new Corinne?  The Sappho of the Leucadian rock of London?  Has she met her Phaon?”

“How late you are, Amadis!” and the Duchess smiled captivatingly as she extended her hand to Jocelyn, who gallantly stooped and kissed the perfectly fitting glove which covered it.  “If you mean Miss Armitage, she is just over there talking to two old fogies.  I think they’re Cabinet ministers—­they look it!  She’s quite the success of the evening,—­and pretty, don’t you think?”

Jocelyn looked, and saw the small fair head rising like a golden flower from sea-blue draperies; he smiled enigmatically.

“Not exactly,” he answered, “But spirituelle—­she has what some painters might call an imaginative head—­she could pose very well for St. Dorothy.  I can quite realise her preferring the executioner’s axe to the embraces of Theophilus.”

The Duchess gave him a swift glance and touched his arm with the edge of her fan.

“Are you going to make love to her?” she asked.  “You make love to every woman—­but most women understand your sort of love-making—­”

“Do they?” and his blue eyes flashed amusement.  “And what do they think of it?”

“They laugh at it!” she answered, calmly.  “But that clever child would not laugh—­she would take it au grand serieux.”