“He’d throw me out if I tried, wouldn’t he?  But if they do adopt me—­I swear I’ll make you proud of me, Simon.  I’ll stick my soul into it.  It’s the least I can do in this horrid cuckoo sort of proceeding, and I feel I shall be fighting for you as well as for myself.  My dear old chap, you know what I mean, don’t you?”

I knew, and was touched.  I wished him God-speed with all my heart.  He was a clean, honest, generous gentleman, and I admired, loved and respected him as he stood there full of his youth and hope.  I suddenly felt quite old and withered at the root of my being, like some decrepit king who hands his crown to the young prince.  I rose to take my leave (for what advantage was there in staying?) and felt that I was abandoning to Dale other things beside my crown.

Lola’s strong, boneless hand closed round mine in a more enveloping grip than ever.  She looked at me appealingly.

“Shall I see you again before you go?”

“Before you go?” cried Dale.  “Where are you off to?”

“Somewhere south, out of the fogs.”

“When?”

“At once,” said I.

He turned to our hostess.  “We can’t let him go like that.  I wonder if you could fix up a little dinner here, Lola, for the three of us.  It would be ripping, so cosy, you know.”

He glowed with the preposterous inspiration.  Lola began politely: 

“Of course, if Mr. de Gex——­”

“It would be delightful,” said I, “but I’m starting at once—­to-morrow or the day after.  We will have the dinner when I come back and you are a full-blown Member of Parliament.”

I made my escape and fled to my own cheerful library.  It is oak-panelled and furnished with old oak, and the mezzo-tints on the walls are mellow.  Of the latter, I have a good collection, among them a Prince Rupert of which I am proud.  I threw myself, a tired man, into an armchair by the fire, and rang the bell for a brandy and soda.  Oh, the comfort of the rooms, the comfort of Rogers, the comfort of the familiar backs of the books in the shelves!  I felt loth to leave it all and go vagabonding about the cold world on my lunatic adventure.  For the first time in my life I cursed Marcus Aurelius.  I shook my fist at him as he stood on the shelf within easy reach of my hand.  It was he who had put into my head this confounded notion of achieving eumoiriety.  Am I dealing to myself, I asked, a happy lot and portion?  Certainly not, I replied, and when Rogers brought me my brandy and soda I drank it off desperately.  After that I grew better, and drew up a merry little Commination Service.

A plague on the little pain inside.

A plague on Lady Kynnersley for weeping me into my rash undertaking.

A plague on Professor Anastasius Papadopoulos for aiding and abetting
Lady Kynnersley.

A plague on Captain Vauvenarde for running away from his wife; for giving up the army; for not letting me know whether he is alive or dead; for being, I’ll warrant him, in the most uncomfortable and ungetatable spot on the globe.