The music in the ballroom stopped.

"Will you be so good, Miss Killigrew, as to tell me why you Americans
call a palace like this--a cottage?" Lord Monckton's voice was
pleasing, with only a slight accent.

"I'm sure I do not know. If it were mine, I'd call it a villa."

"Quite properly."

"Do you like Americans?"

"I have no preference for any people. I prefer individuals. I had
much rather talk to an enlightened Chinaman than to an unenlightened
white man."

"I am afraid you are what they call blasé."

"Perhaps I am not quite at ease yet. I was buffeted about a deal in
the old days."

Lord Monckton dropped back into the wicker chair, in the deep shadow.
Kitty did not move. She wondered what Thomas was doing. (Thomas was
rubbing ointment on his raw knuckles.) "I am very fond of the sea," remarked Lord Monckton. "I have seen some
odd parts of it. Every man has his Odyssey, his Aeneid."

Aeneid. It seemed to Kitty that her body had turned that instant into
marble as cold as that under her palms.

The coal of the man's cigar glowed intermittently. She could see
nothing else.

Aeneid--Enid.