"
Lady Carey, who was slowly unwinding the white veil from her picture
hat, shrugged her shoulders.
"My dear man," she said, "you could not seriously expect me to fall
in love with you."
The Prince sipped his wine--a cabinet hock of rare vintage--and
found it good. He leaned over towards his companion.
"Why not?" he asked. "I wish that you would try--in earnest, I
mean. You are capable of great things, I believe--perhaps of the
great passion itself."
"Perhaps," she murmured derisively.
"And yet," he continued, "there has always been in our love-making
a touch of amateurishness. It is an awkward word, but I do not
know how better to explain myself."
"I understand you perfectly," she answered. "I can also, I think,
explain it. It is because I never cared a rap about you."
The Prince did not appear altogether pleased. He curled his fair
moustache, and looked deprecatingly at his companion. She had so
much the air of a woman who has spoken the truth.
"My dear Muriel!" he protested.
She looked at him insolently.
"My good man," she said, "whatever you do don't try and be
sentimental. You know quite well that I have never in my life
pretended to care a rap about you--except to pass the time. You
are altogether too obvious. Very young girls and very old women
would rave about you.
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