“It would be much nicer if you remained in London,” said he.

“Very well,” said Zora, “we shall.  We can put up at the Grosvenor Hotel here for the night.  Where are you staying?”

Septimus murmured the name of his sedate club, where his dissolute morning appearance was still remembered against him.

“Go and change and come back and dine with me in an hour’s time.”

He obeyed the command with his usual meekness, and Zora followed the porter through the subway to the hotel.

“We haven’t dined together like this,” she said, unfolding her napkin an hour afterwards, “since Monte Carlo.  Then it was hopelessly unconventional.  Now we can dine in the strictest propriety.  Do you understand that you’re my brother-in-law?”

She laughed, radiant, curiously happy at being with him.  She realized, with a little shock of discovery, the restfulness that was the essential quality of his companionship.  He was a quiet haven after stormy seas; he represented something intimate and tender in her life.

They spoke for a while of common things:  her train journey, the crossing, the wonders she had seen.  He murmured incoherent sketches of his life in Paris, the new gun, and Hegisippe Cruchot.  But of the reason for his summons he said nothing.  At last she leaned across the table and said gently: 

“Why am I here, Septimus?  You haven’t told me.”

“Haven’t I?”

“No.  You see, the little dog’s tail brought me post-haste to you, but it gave me no inkling why you wanted me so badly.”

He looked at her in his scared manner.

“Oh, I don’t want you at all; at least, I do—­most tremendously—­but not for myself.”

“For whom, then?”

“Clem Sypher,” said Septimus.

She paled slightly, and looked down at her plate and crumbled bread.  For a long time she did not speak.  The announcement did not surprise her.  In an inexplicable way it seemed natural.  Septimus and Sypher had shared her thoughts so oddly during her journey.  An unaccountable shyness had checked her impulse to inquire after his welfare.  Indeed, now that the name was spoken she could scarcely believe that she had not expected to hear it.

“What is the matter?” she asked at length.

“The Cure has failed.”

“Failed?”

She looked up at him half incredulously.  The very last letter she had received from Sypher had been full of the lust of battle.  Septimus nodded gloomily.

“It was only a silly patent ointment like a hundred others, but it was Sypher’s religion.  Now his gods have gone, and he’s lost.  It’s not good for a man to have no gods.  I didn’t have any once, and the devils came in.  They drove me to try haschisch.  But it must have been very bad haschisch, for it made me sick, and so I was saved.”

“What made you send for me so urgently?  The dog’s tail—­you knew I had to come.”