“Everything—­nothing—­only that I feel old—­and that I haven’t been used to feeling old—­and that it’s so—­so loathsome—­”

“I’m sure it is,” she laughed, rallying him.  “I can understand your being sick, if you have come to that.  But why do you let yourself?  Why do you think about it?  Why do you own to it—­in that abject way?  I never do.  I’m determined not to be an old woman—­until I am obliged.  And I don’t paint, either,” she added, “and my hair is my own.”

He seemed to study her cheek and her hair.  She coloured up, dipped her pen, and looked at her unfinished letter.  He wandered off a step or two, and returned.

“Do you know this thing of Hamerton’s?” he inquired, in a casual way, extending the volume he held.

She took it, laying down her pen.  A considerable literary discussion ensued, during which he fetched more books from the shelves to show her.  It began to appear that he meant to spend the whole morning with her, possibly taking it for granted that it was her desire to have him.  That idea, if he entertained it, must be corrected at once.  She resumed her pen with a business-like air.

“Deb,” said he then, “do you mind if I read here for a little while?  I won’t disturb you.  It’s so nice and quiet—­away from those chattering women—­”

“Oh, certainly!” she politely acquiesced.  “But don’t you think they’ll want you, with all the other men away?  Now’s your opportunity to be made much of.”

“I don’t care to be made much of just because I am the only man.”

“Oh, but you would always be more than that, of course.”

“I’m not more than an old fogey when the young fellows are around.  They will take no notice of me at tea-time.  Well, I’m getting used to it.  I’m getting to know my place.”  “If that was your place, you would soon vacate it.”

“How can I vacate it?”

“When people begin to take me for an old fogey, they’ll not have the honour of my company in their houses.”

“That’s very well for you—­wait till the time comes.  And I suppose you like it, anyhow.  You seem to enjoy all this”—­waving a hand around—­ “as if you were a girl who had never seen anything.  I’m sick and tired of the whole show.”

“Then don’t have any more to do with it.  Go home.”

“Home!  What home have I?”

“A lovely flat in town, they tell me, where you give the best dinners, and ladies’ theatre parties and things—­” “Pshaw!  I am hardly ever there.  I hate the racket of London in the season—­I’m not up to it nowadays—­and you wouldn’t have me stranded in Piccadilly at this time of year, I presume?  I’m obliged to spend the winter down south—­and by the same token I must soon be getting off, or these east winds and damp mists will play the deuce with my bronchitis—­”

“Oh, it’s bronchitis, is it?  I knew it was something.  I suppose you’ve been coddling yourself with hot rooms and all sorts of flannel things; that’s the way people make themselves tender, and get chills and chest complaints, and get old before their time.”