“Of course,” acquiesced Nick.  “But all the king’s horses and all the king’s men wouldn’t bring me back again.  That’s the worst of being mortal.  You can’t dance at your own funeral.”

“What do you mean?” There was a note of exasperation in Muriel’s voice.  She saw that he had an object in view, but his method of attaining it was too tortuous for her straightforward understanding.

He explained himself with much patience.  His mood had so completely changed that she could barely recall to mind the vision that had so appalled her but a few minutes before.

“What I mean is that it’s infernal to think that some one may be shedding precious tears on your grave and you not there to see.  I’ve often wondered if one could get a ticket of leave for such an occasion.”  He smiled down at her with baffling directness.  “I should value those tears unspeakably,” he said.

Muriel made a slight movement of impatience.  The discussion seemed to her inconsequent and unprofitable.

Nick began to enumerate his points.  “You’re not tired of me—­though I see I’m boring you hideously; put up with it a little longer, I’ve nearly finished—­and you’d shed quite a respectable number of tears if I were to die young.  Yes, I am young though as ugly as Satan.  I believe you think I’m some sort of connection, don’t you?  Is that why you don’t want to marry me?”

He put the question with startling suddenness, and Muriel glanced up quickly, but was instantly reassured.  He was no more formidable at that moment than a grinning schoolboy.  Still she did not feel wholly at her ease with him.  She had a curious suspicion that he was in some fashion testing her.

“No,” she answered, after a moment.  “It is nothing of that sort.”

“Quite sure there is a reason?” he asked quizzically.

Her white cheeks flushed.  “Yes, of course.  But—­I would rather not tell you what it is.”

“Quite so,” said Nick.  “I suppose that also is ’only fair’?”

Her colour deepened.  He made her feel unaccountably ashamed.  “I will tell you if you wish to know,” she said reluctantly.  “But I would rather not.”

Nick made an airy gesture.  “Not for the world!  My intelligence department is specially fitted for this sort of thing.  Besides, I know exactly what happened.  It was something like this.”  He passed his hand over his face, then turned to her with a faint, wry smile so irresistibly reminiscent of Lady Bassett that Muriel gasped with a sudden hysterical desire to laugh.

He silenced her by beginning to speak in soft, purring accents.  “You know, darling Muriel, I have never looked upon Nicholas Ratcliffe as a marrying man.  He is such a gay butterfly.” (This with an indulgent shake of the head.) “Indeed, I have heard dear Mrs. Gybbon-Smythe describe him as a shocking little flirt.  And they say he is fond of his glass too, but let us hope this is an exaggeration.  I know for a fact that he has a