My wife was never one to keep her appointments, and so I made my way to Claridge's, the hotel where we had agreed to meet, ten minutes past the appointed hour — but she had not yet arrived. I ordered a drink and set my eyes wandering over the people who sat in their comfortable chairs, sipping their coffee at leisure. It was summer, and the women looked graceful in their light-colored summer clothes, and the men looked charming and well turned out; but I saw no one among them who caught my interest enough to make me forget the passing of time as I sat waiting for my wife, who hated nothing in life so much as carrying a watch or wearing an ornament set with turquoise. Her distaste for watches came of their being liable to break down from one moment to the next... as for turquoise, it was her loathing of its color when it turns, with time, from pale blue to dark green. It made no difference to me whether she favored turquoise or not, but I differed with her over her refusal to wear a watch, for I believed a watch runs regularly enough if one takes the trouble to wind it. I was still occupied with thoughts of this kind when I saw one of the waiters come toward me and whisper in my ear that my wife had telephoned the hotel to excuse herself from coming at all, since something had arisen to keep her away. I was put out, for it was not, to my mind, agreeable for a person to sit alone at a table in such a place. But I was hungry, so I took myself off to the dining room, and found every table occupied by diners. I turned my eyes about the room and saw, at the far end, an old friend of mine, Lady Elizabeth Vermont. She smiled at me, and seeing her alone, I made my way to her and said:

— Won't you take pity on a hungry man and allow him to sit at your table?

She smiled and answered, 'Of course... but I have finished my meal.'

I sat down, saying, 'It was my good luck to find you — I am nearly dead with hunger.'

And I saw her smile again — that smile which does not flash out quickly, but creeps slowly from her lips up to her bright, expressive eyes. Lady Vermont was beautiful and graceful in spite of her fifty years,

giving whoever saw her an impression of youth and freshness, and she was skilled in the use of makeup without excess. There was nothing I detested so much as those painted faces that look like masks, so thickly are they plastered with color. Her hair was glossy, soft, and black, thanks to dye; her gown of black satin was distinguished by an appealing simplicity; and her jewels were a string of pearls about her neck and her wedding ring with its great emerald, whose dark color made her hands look all the whiter.

Elizabeth was a woman of distinguished descent: the daughter of the seventh Duke of St. Erth. She had married at eighteen a dissolute spendthrift, and her marriage ended in a scandal that decreed her divorce from him. After him she married a man whose name had figured in the same case, and before long — after eighteen months — she left him too and set about weaving herself a web of love affairs; and soon enough the talk was raging around her, and the very mention of her name became offensive to conservative circles.

Yet however unfaithful Lady Vermont was to her lovers... she was a model of fidelity to her friends. Nothing in her conduct or her doings ever lowered her standing in their hearts, for with them she was always the same — gracious, open-handed, and straight, knowing nothing of crookedness or hypocrisy.

I came to know the Lady at a time when fashionable society had turned its back on her, and she had taken to the company of writers and artists, as is the custom of aristocratic women who live her kind of life. I found her a graceful talker, quite ready to speak of her life with a spirit of great honesty and humor.

I would have expected anything of Elizabeth except that at forty she should bind her fate to that of a young man of twenty-one and marry him. Her acquaintances called this step the height of madness, and set themselves to watching for the end of the marriage, pitying her boy husband — for Elizabeth had never in any circumstances endured the company of husband or lover for more than six months. But all their guesses failed, in a way that astonished them. After her marriage to this fresh youth, Elizabeth became a different creature. Was it age that had restored some sense to her? Or had her boundless love for her husband, Peter Vermont, made another woman of her? For behold: she, the extravagant spendthrift, considerately accommodated her husband's slender means and economized; and she, the frivolous pleasure-seeker, inclined to quiet, silencing the many long tongues around her. Her husband's happiness was all that mattered to her any longer in life. And there was not the least doubt that Elizabeth loved her husband with a great and faithful love.

It pleased me greatly that Elizabeth should behave