She sighed gently, vaguely stirred, in spite of herself, by something--she knew not what--in her companion's face.
"It is four years since I saw you," she said.
And from her lowered voice it seemed as if her life were rooted in memory alone.
"Four years," said Michael, who, promising young diplomat as he was, appeared only able to repeat parrot-wise her last words after her.
A pause.
"Do you know my husband ?" "I do not." "May I introduce him to you ?" Fay made a little sign, and the duke approached, superb, decorated, dignified, with the polished pallor as if the skin were a little too tight, which is the Charybdis of many who have avoided the Scylla of wrinkles.
The elder Italian and the grave, fair, young Englishman bowed to each other, were made known to each other.
That night as the duke drove home with his wife he said to her in his admirable English: "Your young cousin is an enthusiast, a dreamer, a sensitive, what your Tennyson calls a Sir Galahad.

In Italy we make of such men a priest, a cardinal.

He is not an _homme d'affaires_.

It was not well to put him into diplomacy.

One may make a religion of art.