“Quite a little paradise,” Lady Cynthia murmured.

“Delightful,” her companion assented.  “I suppose great wealth has its obligations, but why any human being should rear such a structure as what he calls his Borghese villa, when he has a charming place like that to live in, I can’t imagine.”

Her silence was significant, almost purposeful.  She unwound the veil from her motoring turban, took it off altogether and attached it to the cushions of the car with a hatpin.

“There,” she said, leaning back, “you can now gaze upon a horrible example to the young women of to-day.  You can see the ravages which late hours, innumerable cocktails, a thirst for excitement, a contempt of the simple pleasures of life, have worked upon my once comely features.  I was quite good-looking, you know, in the days you first knew me.”

“You were the most beautiful debutante of your season,” he agreed.

“What do you think of me now?” she asked.

She met his gaze without flinching.  Her face was unnaturally thin, with disfiguring hollows underneath her cheekbones; her lips lacked colour; even her eyes were lustreless.  Her hair seemed to lack brilliancy.  Only her silken eyebrows remained unimpaired, and a certain charm of expression which nothing seemed able to destroy.

“You look tired,” he said.

“Be honest, my dear man,” she rejoined drily.  “I am a physical wreck, dependent upon cosmetics for the looks which I am still clever enough to palm off on the uninitiated.”

“Why don’t you lead a quieter life?” he asked.  “A month or so in the country would put you all right.”

She laughed a little hardly.  Then for a moment she looked at him appraisingly.

“I was going to speak to you of nerves,” she said, “but how would you ever understand?  You look as though you had not a nerve in your body.  I can’t think how you manage it, living in London.  I suppose you do exercises and take care of what you eat and drink.”

“I do nothing of the sort,” he assured her indignantly.  “I eat and drink whatever I fancy.  I have always had a direct object in life—­my work—­and I believe that has kept me fit and well.  Nerve troubles come as a rule, I think, from the under-used brain.”

“I must have been born with a butterfly disposition,” she said.  “I am quite sure that mine come because I find it so hard to be amused.  I am sure I am most enterprising.  I try whatever comes along, but nothing satisfies me.”

“Why not try being in love with one of these men who’ve been in love with you all their lives?”

She laughed bitterly.