Midmore looked at his watch impatiently.

‘I suppose you can find somebody to buy it?’ he repeated.

’We will do our best, of course, if those are your instructions.  Then, that is all except’—­here Midmore half rose, but Mr. Sperrit’s little grey eyes held his large brown ones firmly—­’except about Rhoda Dolbie, Mrs. Werf’s maid.  I may tell you that we did not draw up your aunt’s last will.  She grew secretive towards the last—­elderly people often do—­and had it done in London.  I expect her memory failed her, or she mislaid her notes.  She used to put them in her spectacle-case....  My motor only takes eight minutes to get to the station, Mr. Midmore ... but, as I was saying, whenever she made her will with us, Mrs. Werf always left Rhoda thirty pounds per annum.  Charlie, the wills!’ A clerk with a baldish head and a long nose dealt documents on to the table like cards, and breathed heavily behind Midmore.  ’It’s in no sense a legal obligation, of course,’ said Mr. Sperrit.  ’Ah, that one is dated January the 11th, eighteen eighty-nine.’

Midmore looked at his watch again and found himself saying with no good grace:  ’Well, I suppose she’d better have it—­for the present at any rate.’

He escaped with an uneasy feeling that two hundred and fifty-four pounds a year was not exactly four hundred, and that Charlie’s long nose annoyed him.  Then he returned, first-class, to his own affairs.

Of the two, perhaps three, experiments in Social Relations which he had then in hand, one interested him acutely.  It had run for some months and promised most variegated and interesting developments, on which he dwelt luxuriously all the way to town.  When he reached his flat he was not well prepared for a twelve-page letter explaining, in the diction of the Immoderate Left which rubricates its I’s and illuminates its T’s, that the lady had realised greater attractions in another Soul.  She re-stated, rather than pleaded, the gospel of the Immoderate Left as her justification, and ended in an impassioned demand for her right to express herself in and on her own life, through which, she pointed out, she could pass but once.  She added that if, later, she should discover Midmore was ‘essentially complementary to her needs,’ she would tell him so.  That Midmore had himself written much the same sort of epistle—­barring the hint of return—­to a woman of whom his needs for self-expression had caused him to weary three years before, did not assist him in the least.  He expressed himself to the gas-fire in terms essential but not complimentary.  Then he reflected on the detached criticism of his best friends and her best friends, male and female, with whom he and she and others had talked so openly while their gay adventure was in flower.  He recalled, too—­this must have been about midnight—­her analysis from every angle, remote and most intimate, of the mate to whom she had been adjudged under the base convention