“I haven’t the least doubt of it,” responded Montague.

“And what’s more,” she went on, “you don’t want to be shy about taking advantage of the opportunities that come to you.  You’ll find you won’t get along in New York unless you go right in and grab what you can.  People will be quick enough to take advantage of you.”

“They have all been very kind to me so far,” said he.  “But when I get ready for business, I’ll harden my heart.”

Mrs. Winnie sat lost in meditation.  “I think business is dreadful,” she said.  “So much hard work and worry!  Why can’t men learn to get along without it?”

“There are bills that have to be paid,” Montague replied.

“It’s our dreadfully extravagant way of life,” exclaimed the other.  “Sometimes I wish I had never had any money in my life.”

“You would soon tire of it,” said he.  “You would miss this house.”

“I should not miss it a bit,” said Mrs. Winnie, promptly.  “That is really the truth—­I don’t care for this sort of thing at all.  I’d like to live simply, and without so many cares and responsibilities.  And some day I’m going to do it, too—­I really am.  I’m going to get myself a little farm, away off somewhere in the country.  And I’m going there to live and raise chickens and vegetables, and have my own flower-gardens, that I can take care of myself.  It will all be plain and simple—­” and then Mrs. Winnie stopped short, exclaiming, “You are laughing at me!”

“Not at all!” said Montague.  “But I couldn’t help thinking about the newspaper reporters—­”

“There you are!” said she.  “One can never have a beautiful dream, or try to do anything sensible—­because of the newspaper reporters!”

If Montague had been meeting Mrs. Winnie Duval for the first time, he would have been impressed by her yearnings for the simple life; he would have thought it an important sign of the times.  But alas, he knew by this time that his charming hostess had more flummery about her than anybody else he had encountered—­and all of her own devising!  Mrs. Winnie smoked her own private brand of cigarettes, and when she offered them to you, there were the arms of the old ducal house of Montmorenci on the wrappers!  And when you got a letter from Mrs. Winnie, you observed a three-cent stamp upon the envelope—­for lavender was her colour, and two-cent stamps were an atrocious red!  So one might feel certain that it Mrs. Winnie ever went in for chicken-raising, the chickens would be especially imported from China or Patagonia, and the chicken-coops would be precise replicas of those in the old Chateau de Montmorenci which she had visited in her automobile.