“A certain amount.”

“He’s madly attractive.”

“In what sort of way?”

Félicité smiled and shook her head. “My dear Lisle, he just does things for me.”

“He’s not by any chance a bounder?”

“He can bound like a ping-pong ball and I won’t bat an eyelid. To me he’s heaven; but just plain heaven.”

“Come off it, Fée,” said Carlisle. “I’ve heard all this before. What’s the catch in it?”

Félicité looked sideways at her. “How do you mean, the catch?”

“There’s always a catch in your young men, darling, when you rave like this about them.”

Félicité began to walk showily about the room. She had lit a cigarette and wafted it to and fro between two fingers, nursing her right elbow in the palm of the left hand. Her manner became remote. “When English people talk about a bounder,” she said, “they invariably refer to someone who has more charm and less gaucherie than the average Englishman.”

“I couldn’t disagree more; but go on.”

Félicité said loftily: “Of course I knew from the first Mama would kick like the devil. C’la va sans dire. And I don’t deny Carlos is a bit tricky. In fact, ‘It’s hell but it’s worth it’ is a fairly accurate summing-up of the situation at the moment. I’m adoring it, really— I think.”

“I don’t think.”

“Yes, I am,” said Félicité violently. “I adore a situation. I’ve been brought up on situations. Think of George. You know, I honestly believe I’ve got more in common with George than I would have had with my own father. From all accounts, Papa was excessively rangé.”

“You’d do with a bit more orderliness yourself, old girl. In what way is Carlos tricky?”

“Well, he’s just so jealous he’s like a Spanish novel.”