“Look at her,” Selingman continued, turning to Maraton.  “She has the slim body, the long, delicate figure of those Botticellis we all love—­except the Russians.  I never yet met a Russian who could appreciate a Botticelli.  And her eyes—­look at them, man.  And you let her sit there till the hollows are forming in her cheeks.  Be ashamed of yourself.  Take her out into the country.  One works just as well in the sunshine.  You do better work if you can smell flowers growing around you while your brain is active.  Lend her to me for a week.  I’ll take her to my cottage in the Ardennes.  There I live with the sun—­breakfast at sunrise, to bed at sunset.  I will dictate to you, Miss Julia—­dictate beautiful things.  You shall be proud always.  You shall say—­’I have worked for Selingman.  Conceited ass!’ you will probably add.  Thank Heavens that I am conceited!  Nothing is so splendid in life as to know your own worth.  Nothing makes so much for happiness. . . .  Maraton, where shall I find you to-night?”

“In the House of Commons, probably,” Maraton replied.  “But take my advice.  Leave Maxendorf alone for a few days.”

“We will see—­we will see,” Selingman went on, a little impatiently.  “Come, I have nothing to do—­nothing whatever.  I came to London to see you, Maraton.  You must put up with me.  Work—­put it away.  The sun shines.  Let us all go into the country.  I will get a car.  Or what of the river?  Perhaps not.  I am too restless, I cannot sit still.  I will walk about always.  And I cannot swim.  We will take a car and sometimes we will walk.  I go to fetch it now, eh?”

Maraton glanced helplessly at Julia.  They both laughed.

“I have to be back at four o’clock,” the former said.  “I have an appointment at the House of Commons then.”

“Excellent!” Selingman declared.  “I go there with you.  Your House of Commons always fascinates me.  I hear you speak, perhaps?  No?  What does it matter?  I will hear the others drone.  I go to fetch a car.”

Maraton held out his hand.

“I have a car,” he observed.  “It is waiting now at the back entrance.  You had better get your things on, Miss Thurnbrein.  I can see that we have come under the influence of a master spirit.”

She looked at the pile of letters by her side, but Maraton only shook his head.

“We must parody his own phrase and declare that ‘Selingman is here!’” he said.  “Go and put your things on and tell Aaron.  We will steal out like conspirators at the back door.”

They lunched at a roadside inn in Buckinghamshire, an inn ivy-covered, with a lawn behind, and a garden full of cottage flowers.  Selingman with his own hands dragged out the table from the little sitting-room, through the open windows to a shaded corner of the lawn, drew the cork from a bottle of wine, and taking off his coat, started to make a salad.

“Insects everywhere,” he remarked cheerfully.  “Hold your parasol over my salad, please, Miss Julia.  So!  What does it matter?  Where there are flowers and trees there must be insects.  Let them live their day of life.”