He was wondering now whether Boots had recognised Alixe when he had blundered into the room that night.  He had never asked the question; he was very much inclined to, now.  However, Boots’s reply could be only the negative answer that any decent man must give.

Sitting there in the carpetless room piled high with dusty, linen-shrouded furniture, he looked around, an involuntary smile twitching his mouth.  Somehow he had not felt so light-hearted for a long, long while—­and whether it came from his comrade’s sermon, or his own unexpected acknowledgment of its truth, or whether it was pure amusement at Boots in the role of householder and taxpayer, he could not decide.  But he was curiously happy of a sudden; and he smiled broadly upon Mr. Lansing: 

“What about your marrying,” he said—­“after all this talk about mine!  What about it, Boots?  Is this new house the first modest step toward the matrimony you laud so loudly?”

“Sure,” said that gentleman airily; “that’s what I’m here for.”

“Really?”

“Well, of course, idiot.  I’ve always been in love.”

“You mean you actually have somebody in view—?”

“No, son.  I’ve always been in love with—­love.  I’m a sentimental sentry on the ramparts of reason.  I’m properly armed for trouble, now, so if I’m challenged I won’t let my chance slip by me.  Do you see?  There are two kinds of sentimental warriors in this amorous world:  the man and the nincompoop.  The one brings in his prisoner, the other merely howls for her.  So I’m all ready for the only girl in the world; and if she ever gets away from me I’ll give you my house, cellar, and back yard, including the wistaria and both cats—­”

“You have neither wistaria nor cats—­yet.”

“Neither am I specifically in love—­yet.  So that’s all right—­Philip.  Come on; let’s take another look at that fascinating cellar of mine!”

But Selwyn laughingly declined, and after a little while he went away, first to look up a book which he was having bound for Eileen, then to call on his sister who, with Eileen, had just returned from a week at Silverside with the children, preliminary to moving the entire establishment there for the coming summer; for the horses and dogs had already gone; also Kit-Ki, a pessimistic parrot, and the children’s two Norwegian ponies.

“Silverside is too lovely for words!” exclaimed Nina as Selwyn entered the library.  “The children almost went mad.  You should have seen the dogs, too—­tearing round and round the lawn in circles—­poor things!  They were crazy for the fresh, new turf.  And Kit-Ki! she lay in the sun and rolled and rolled until her fur was perfectly filthy.  Nobody wanted to come away; Eileen made straight for the surf; but it was an arctic sea, and as soon as I found out what she was doing I made her come out.”

“I should think you would,” he said; “nobody can do that and thrive.”