“You—­you don’t understand, old chap.  Seems cheek—­my saying that to you.  But you’re not like other people—­you don’t need the things they have to have to keep going.  And, anyhow, she’s not responsible for the asses men make of themselves.”  He was becoming more fuddled as the warmth of the room closed over his wine-heated brain.  But his eyes had changed.  They had narrowed to two twinkling slits of gay secretiveness.  “More things in heaven and earth than you dream of, old chap.  But you don’t dream, do you?  Never did.  Got your teeth into facts—­diseases—­and getting on—­and all that.  What’s a song and a dance to you?  But I wish you liked her, all the same.  P’raps you do, only you won’t own up.  She liked you, you know.  Fact is, it was she sent me along to dig you out.”

At that Stonehouse was caught up sharply out of his indifference.  He flushed and thrust his hands into his pockets to prevent them from clenching themselves in absurd resentment.

“What do you mean?”

Cosgrave nodded.  But he looked suddenly confused and rather sulky, like a play-tired child who has been shaken out of its sleep to be cross-examined.

“Well—­some people would be jolly flattered.  There’s to be a big beano on her birthday—­a supper party behind the scenes—­and she said:  ’You bring along your nice, sad, little friend—­ce pauvre jeune homme.’  You know, Stonehouse, it made me laugh, her describing you like that.  I said:  ’You don’t need to be sorry for Robert Stonehouse.  He can keep his own end up as well as anybody.’  But she said:  ’Ce pauvre jeune homme.’  I couldn’t get her to see you were a damned lucky fellow.”  He dropped back into the corner of the chesterfield and yawned and stretched himself.  “I want you to come too.  Do you good.  P’raps she’s right.  P’raps you’ve had a rotten time in your own way.  Though I don’t know—­I’d be happy enough, if I were you—­always seem to come out on top—­not to care for any damn thing on earth, except that—­not even Francey Wilmot—­or even me—­just a sort of pug-dog you trailed behind on the end of a string—­a sort of mascot.”

He was going to sleep.  He waggled his arm feebly, groping for Stonehouse.  “Say you’ll come.  I’d be awfully proud—­show you off, you know.  Always was—­awfully proud—­have such a pal.”

He was the very figure of stupid intoxication as he lay there with his crumpled evening clothes and disordered hair—­and yet not ugly either, but in some way innocent and simple. (Robert could see little Rufus Cosgrave, excited and tired out after the chase to the Greatest Show in Europe, peering through the disguise of rowdy manhood.)

Stonehouse threw a rug over him, resigning himself to the inevitable.  But when he had switched off the main lights he gave an involuntary glance over the suddenly shadowed room as though to make sure that the darkness had exorcised an alien and detestable presence.