‘Mallinson,’ interposed Conway, ’has been absorbed in the interesting study of his own personality.’

’I am not certain that pursuit is not preferable to revolving unsuccessfully through a cycle of professions,’ said Mallinson in slow sarcasm.

The flush was upon Conway’s cheek now.  He set his wine glass deliberately upon the table and leaned forward on an elbow.

‘My dear good Sidney,’ he began with elaborate affection, plainly intended as the sugar coating of an excessively unpleasant pill.  Drake hastily interrupted with an anecdote of African experiences.  It sounded bald and monstrously long, but it served its purpose as peace-maker.  Literary acquisitiveness drew Mallinson on to ask for more of the same kind.  Drake mentioned a race of pigmies and described them, speculating whether they might be considered the originals of the human race.

‘My dear fellow, don’t!’ said Mallinson; ’I loathe hearing about them.  It’s so degrading to us to think we sprang from them.’

The peculiar sensitiveness of a mind ever searching, burrowing in, and feeding upon itself struck a jarring note upon its healthier companion.

‘Why, what on earth does it matter?’ asked Drake.

‘Ah!  Perhaps you wouldn’t understand.’

Conway gave a shrug of the shoulder and laughed to Drake across the table.  The latter looked entreaty in reply and courageously started a different topic.  He spoke of their boyhood in the suburb on the heights six miles to the south of London, and in particular of a certain hill, Elm-tree Hill they called it, a favourite goal for walks and the spot where the three had last met on the night before Drake left England.  London had lain beneath it roped with lights.

‘The enchanted city,’ said Conway, catching back some flavour of those times.  ‘It seemed distant as El Dorado, and as desirable.’

Mallinson responded with the gentle smile with which a man recognises and pities a childishness he has himself outgrown.

Drake ordered port, having great faith in its qualities, as inducive of a cat-like content and consequent good-fellowship.  Mallinson, however, never touched port; nothing but the lightest of French burgundies after dinner for him.  The party withdrew to the smoking-room.

‘By the way, Drake,’ asked Mallinson, ‘have you anything to do to-night?’

‘No, why?’

‘I was asked to take you to a sort of party.’

Conway looked up sharply in surprise.

‘You were asked to take me!’ exclaimed Drake.  ‘Who asked you?’

‘Oh, nobody whom you know.’  He hesitated for a second, then added with studied carelessness, ‘A Miss Le Mesurier.  Her mother’s dead,’ he explained, noticing the look of surprise on Drake’s face, ’so she keeps house for her father.  There’s an aunt to act as chaperon, but she doesn’t count.  I got a note from Miss Le Mesurier just before I came here asking me to bring you.’