CHAPTER XXIII.
"After all," said the Prince, looking up from the wine list, "why cannot I be satisfied with you?
And why cannot you be satisfied with me?
It would save so much trouble." 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.