“But what is it?  What is he like?”

“I should be guilty of the murder of a secret if I told you.  He isn’t particularly romantic.  I have seen him in a poor light; I have watched him in a most undignified temper; I have known him when he wanted a shave.  I don’t exist in this World of mine.  I am just a column of thin air, watching with my soul.”

“Then you’re really telling lies to Anonyma when you write about it all?  I’m not reproaching you of course, I only want to get my mind clear.”

“I suppose they’re lies,” assented Jay ruefully, “though it seems sacrilege to say so, for I know these things better than I know myself.  But Truth—­or Untruth, what’s the use of words like that when miracles are in question?”

“Oh, damn this What’s the Use Trick,” said Kew.  “I suppose you picked that up in this private Heaven of yours.  The whole thing’s absolutely—­My dear little Jay, am I offending you?”

“Yes,” said Jay.

Kew sighed.

Chloris sighed too.  Chloris had played the thankless part of third in this interview.  She was Jay’s friend, a terrier with a black eye.  She shared Jay’s burning desire to be of use, and, like most embryo reformers, she had a poor taste in dress.  She wore her tail at an aimless angle, without chic; her markings were all lopsided.  But her soul was ardent, and her life was always directed by some rather inscrutable theory or other.  As a puppy she had been an inspired optimist, with legs like strips of elastic clumsily attached to a winged spirit.  Later she had adopted a vigorous anarchist policy, and had inaugurated what was probably known in her set as the “Bite at Sight Campaign.”  Cured of this, she had become a gentle Socialist, and embraced the belief that all property—­especially edible property—­should be shared.  Appetites, she argued, were meant to be appeased, and the preservation of game—­or anything else—­in the larder was an offence against the community.  Now, at the age of five or so, she affected cynicism, pretended temporarily that life had left a bitter taste in her mouth, and sighed frequently.

“Kew,” said Jay presently, “will you promise not to tell the Family you saw me?  I don’t want it to know about me.  After all, theories are driving me, and theories don’t concern that Family of ours.  What’s the use of a Family? (I’m saying this just to exasperate you.) A Family’s just a little knot of not necessarily congenial people, with Fate rubbing their heads together so as to strike sparks of love.  Love—­what’s the use of Love?  I’d like to catch that Love and box his ears, making such a fool of the world.  What’s the use?”

“God knows,” said Kew.  “Cheer up, my friend, I promise I won’t tell the Family I’ve seen you, or anything about you.”  At the same moment he remembered the motor tour.

“Promise faithfully?”

“Faithfully.”

“It’s a lovely word faithful, isn’t it?” she said, wriggling in her chair.  “Yours faithfully is a most beautiful ending to a letter.  Why is it that faith with a little F is such a perfect thing, and yet Faith, grown-up Faith in Church, is so tiring?”