Mark Frettlby wandered down to the lawn-tennis ground, thinking of the look he had seen in Brian’s eyes.  He shivered for a moment in the hot sunshine, as though it had grown suddenly chill.

“Someone stepping across my grave,” he murmured to himself, with a cynical smile.  “Bah! how superstitious I am, and yet—­he knows, he knows!”

“Come on, sir,” cried Felix, who had just caught sight of him, “a racket awaits you.”

Frettlby awoke with a start, and found himself near the lawn-tennis ground, and Felix at his elbow, smoking a cigarette.

He roused himself with a great effort, and tapped the young man lightly on the shoulder.

“What?” he said with a forced laugh, “do you really expect me to play lawn tennis on such a day?  You are mad.”

“I am hot, you mean,” retorted the imperturbable Rolleston, blowing a wreath of smoke.

“That’s a foregone conclusion,” said Dr. Chinston, who came up at that moment.

“Such a charming novel,” cried Julia, who had just caught the last remark.

“What is?” asked Peterson, rather puzzled.

“Howell’s book, ‘A Foregone Conclusion,’” said Julia, also looking puzzled.  “Weren’t you talking about it?”

“I’m afraid this talk is getting slightly incoherent,” said Felix, with a sigh.  “We all seem madder than usual to-day.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Chinston, indignantly, “I’m as sane as any man in the world.”

“Exactly,” retorted the other coolly, “that’s what I say, and you, being a doctor, ought to know that every man and woman in the world is more or less mad.”

“Where are your facts?” asked Chinston, smiling.

“My facts are all visible ones,” said Felix, gravely pointing to the company.  “They’re all crooked on some point or another.”

There was a chorus of indignant denial at this, and then every one burst out laughing at the extraordinary way in which Mr. Rolleston was arguing.

“If you go on like that in the House,” said Frettlby, amused, “you will, at all events, have an entertaining Parliament.”

“Ah! they’ll never have an entertaining Parliament till they admit ladies,” observed Peterson, with a quizzical glance at Julia.

“It will be a Parliament of love then,” retorted the doctor, dryly, “and not mediaeval either.”

Frettlby took the doctor’s arm, and walked away with him.  “I want you to come up to my study, doctor,” he said, as they strolled towards the house, “and examine me.”

“Why, don’t you feel well?” said Chinston, as they entered the house.

“Not lately,” replied Frettlby.  “I’m afraid I’ve got heart disease.”

The doctor looked sharply at him, and then shook his head.

“Nonsense,” he said, cheerfully, “it’s a common delusion with people that they have heart disease, and in nine cases, out of ten it’s all imagination; unless, indeed,” he added waggishly, “the patient happens to be a young man.”