Germain laughed--whether at Chevenix or his preposterous hero is not
to be known. "You are rather absurd," she said. "Mr. Senhouse never gave
me the idea of that sort of person. Why did they never--?"
Chevenix narrowed his eyes to the merest slats. "_Marry?_" he said, in an
awed whisper. "Is that what you mean?"
Mrs. Germain showed him her soft brown orbs, which for two seasons had
been said to be the finest pair of dark eyes in London. "Yes," she said,
"I do mean that. How clever of you to guess!"
Chevenix bowed to her. "Not at all," he said. "I'm quite good at that kind
of thing. You have to be, if you knock about. Besides, that's the whole
point. Bless you! He would just as soon have married Diana of the
Ephesians. He said so. I heard him. He would have thought it an insult to
hint at it. Didn't I tell you that he was a poet?"
"Yes," the lady said quickly. "You did. But I suppose poets occasionally
marry."
"Not that sort," Chevenix pronounced, with a shake of the head. "At least,
they don't marry the right person. They never do. Or there are two or
three persons. Look at Shelley. Look at Dante. I happen to know all about
both of 'em. Senhouse drank 'em up--and gave 'em out like steam.
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