“By the way, Austin; the Orchil boy—­the one in Harvard—­proposed to Eileen—­the little idiot!  She told me—­thank goodness! she still does tell me things.  Also the younger and chubbier Draymore youth has offered himself—­after a killingly proper interview with me.  I thought it might amuse you to hear of it.”

“It might amuse me more if Eileen would get busy and bring Philip into camp,” observed her husband.  “And why the devil they don’t make up their minds to it is beyond me.  That brother of yours is the limit sometimes.  I’m fond of him—­you know it—­but he certainly can be the limit sometimes.”

“Do you know,” said Nina, “that I believe he is in love with her?”

“Then, why doesn’t—­”

“I don’t know.  I was sure—­I am sure now—­that the girl cares more for him than for anybody.  And yet—­and yet I don’t believe she is actually in love with him.  Several times I supposed she was—­or near it, anyway. . . .  But they are a curious pair, Austin—­so quaint about it; so slow and old-fashioned. . . .  And the child is the most innocent being—­in some ways. . . .  Which is all right unless she becomes one of those pokey, earnest, knowledge-absorbing young things with the very germ of vitality dried up and withered in her before she awakens. . . .  I don’t know—­I really don’t.  For a girl must have something of the human about her to attract a man, and be attracted. . . .  Not that she need know anything about love—­or even suspect it.  But there must be some response in her, some—­some—­”

“Deviltry?” suggested Austin.

His pretty wife laughed and dropped one knee over the other, leaning back to watch him finish his good-night cigarette.  After a moment her face grew grave, and she bent forward.

“Speaking of Rosamund a moment ago reminds me of something else she wrote—­it’s about Alixe.  Have you heard anything?”

“Not a word,” said Austin, with a frank scowl, “and don’t want to.”

“It’s only this—­that Alixe is ill.  Nobody seems to know what the matter is; nobody has seen her.  But she’s at Clifton, with a couple of nurses, and Rosamund heard rumours that she is very ill indeed. . . .  People go to Clifton for shattered nerves, you know.”

“Yes; for bridge-fidgets, neurosis, pip, and the various jumps that originate in the simpler social circles.  What’s the particular matter with her?  Too many cocktails?  Or a dearth of grand slams?”

“You are brutal, Austin.  Besides, I don’t know.  She’s had a perfectly dreary life with her husband. . . .  I—­I can’t forget how fond I was of her in spite of what she did to Phil. . . .  Besides, I’m beginning to be certain that it was not entirely her fault.”

“What?  Do you think Phil—­”

“No, no, no!  Don’t be an utter idiot.  All I mean to say is that Alixe was always nervous and high-strung; odd at times; eccentric—­more than merely eccentric—­”