A little later in the evening Elaine found herself standing out a dance with a grave young gentleman from the Russian Embassy.

“Monsieur Courtenay enjoys himself, doesn’t he?” he observed, as the youthful-looking harlequin flashed past them, looking like some restless gorgeous-hued dragonfly; “why is it that the good God has given your countrymen the boon of eternal youth?  Some of your countrywomen, too, but all of the men.”

Elaine could think of many of her countrymen who were not and never could have been youthful, but as far as Courtenay was concerned she recognised the fitness of the remark.  And the recognition carried with it a sense of depression.  Would he always remain youthful and keen on gaiety and revelling while she grew staid and retiring?  She had thrust the lively intractable Comus out of her mind, as by his perverseness he had thrust himself out of her heart, and she had chosen the brilliant young man of affairs as her husband.  He had honestly let her see the selfish side of his character while he was courting her, but she had been prepared to make due sacrifices to the selfishness of a public man who had his career to consider above all other things.  Would she also have to make sacrifices to the harlequin spirit which was now revealing itself as an undercurrent in his nature?  When one has inured oneself to the idea of a particular form of victimisation it is disconcerting to be confronted with another.  Many a man who would patiently undergo martyrdom for religion’s sake would be furiously unwilling to be a martyr to neuralgia.

“I think that is why you English love animals so much,” pursued the young diplomat; “you are such splendid animals yourselves.  You are lively because you want to be lively, not because people are looking on at you.  Monsieur Courtenay is certainly an animal.  I mean it as a high compliment.”

“Am I an animal?” asked Elaine.

“I was going to say you are an angel,” said the Russian, in some embarrassment, “but I do not think that would do; angels and animals would never get on together.  To get on with animals you must have a sense of humour, and I don’t suppose angels have any sense of humour; you see it would be no use to them as they never hear any jokes.”

“Perhaps,” said Elaine, with a tinge of bitterness in her voice, “perhaps I am a vegetable.”

“I think you most remind me of a picture,” said the Russian.

It was not the first time Elaine had heard the simile.

“I know,” she said, “the Narrow Gallery at the Louvre; attributed to Leonardo da Vinci.”

Evidently the impression she made on people was solely one of externals.

Was that how Courtenay regarded her?  Was that to be her function and place in life, a painted background, a decorative setting to other people’s triumphs and tragedies?  Somehow to-night she had the feeling that a general might have who brought imposing forces into the field and could do nothing with them.  She possessed youth and good looks, considerable wealth, and had just made what would be thought by most people a very satisfactory marriage.  And already she seemed to be standing aside as an onlooker where she had expected herself to be taking a leading part.