And Molder answered, with the somewhat fatuous, self-conscious grin that no amount of intelligence can keep out of the face of a good-looking fellow who knows that he has made an impression: 

“Well, I don’t know—­”

G.J. raised his eyebrows again, but with indulgence, and winked at Craive.

The Major shut his lips tight, then stood with his mouth open for a second or two in the attitude of a man suddenly receiving the onset of a great and original idea.

“She’s right, hang it all!” he exclaimed.  “She’s right!  Of course she is!  Why, what’s all this”—­he waved an arm at the whole scene—­“what’s all this but sex?  Look at ’em!  And look at their portraits!  You aren’t going to tell me!  What’s the good of pretending?  Hang it all, when my own aunt comes down to breakfast in a low-cut blouse that would have given her fits even in the evening ten years ago!...  And jolly fine too.  I’m all for it.  The more of it the merrier—­that’s what I say.  And don’t any of you high-brows go trying to alter it.  If you do I retire, and you can defend your own bally Front.”

“Craive,” said G.J. affectionately, “until you and Queen came along Molder and I really thought we were at a picture exhibition, and we still think so, don’t we, Molder?” The Lieutenant nodded.  “Now, as you’re here, just let me show you one or two things.”

“Oh!” breathed the Major, “have pity.  It’s not any canvas woman that I want—­By Jove!” He caught sight of an invention of Felicien Rops, a pig on the end of a string, leading, or being driven by, a woman who wore nothing but stockings, boots and a hat.  “What do you call that?”

“My dear fellow, that’s one of the most famous etchings in the world.”

“Is it?” the Major said.  “Well, I’m not surprised.  There’s more in this business than I imagined.”  He set himself to examine all the exhibits by Rops, and when he had finished he turned to G.J.

“Listen here, G.J.  We’re going to make a night of it.  I’ve decided on that.”

“Sorry, dear heart,” said G.J.  “I’m engaged with Molder to-night.  We shall have some private chamber-music at my rooms—­just for ourselves.  You ought to come.  Much better for your health.”

“What time will the din be over?”

“About eleven.”

“Now I say again—­listen here.  Let’s talk business.  I’ll come to your chamber-music.  I’ve been before, and survived, and I’ll come again.  But afterwards you’ll come with me to the Guinea-Fowl.”

“But, my dear chap, I can’t throw Molder out into Vigo Street at eleven o’clock,” G.J. protested, startled by the blunt mention of the notorious night-club in the young man’s presence.

“Naturally you can’t.  He’ll come along with us.  Frankie and I have nearly fallen into the North Sea or German Ocean together, haven’t we, Frankie?  It’ll be my show.  And I’ll turn up with the stuff—­one, two or three pretty ladies according as your worship wishes.”