"The Count Sabatini is a very extraordinary man," Mr. Weatherley
confessed. "He and his friends come to my house, but to tell you the
truth I don't know much about them. Mrs. Weatherley wishes to have
them there and that is quite enough for me. All the same, I don't
feel that they're exactly the sort of people I've been used to,
Chetwode, and that's a fact."

Mr. Weatherley had resumed his seat. He was leaning back in his
chair now, his hands drooping to his side, looking precisely what he
was--an ungraceful, commonplace little person, without taste or
culture, upon whom even a good tailor seemed to have wasted
his efforts. A certain pomposity which in a way became the
man--proclaimed his prosperity and redeemed him from complete
insignificance--had for a moment departed. He was like a pricked
bladder. Arnold could scarcely help feeling sorry for him.

"I shouldn't allow these things to worry me, if I were you, sir,"
Arnold suggested respectfully. "If there is anything which you don't
understand, I should ask for an explanation. Mrs. Weatherley is much
too kind and generous to wish you to be worried, I am sure."

Then the side of the man with which Arnold wholly sympathized showed
itself suddenly. At the mention of his wife's name an expression
partly fatuous, partly beatific, transformed his homely features. He
was looking at her picture which stood always opposite him. He had
the air of an adoring devotee before some sacred shrine.

"You are quite right, Chetwode," he declared, "quite right, but I
am always very careful not to let my wife know how I feel. You see,