“Dear, let me try to think out what is best for us....  And forgive me, Louis, if I can not help a thought or two of self creeping in.  I am so terribly alone.  Somehow I am beginning to believe that it may sometimes be a weakness to totally ignore one’s self....  Not that I consider myself of importance compared to you, my darling; not that I would fail to set aside any thought of self where your welfare is concerned.  You know that, don’t you?

“But I have been wondering how it would be with you if I passed quietly and absolutely out of your life.  That is what I am trying to determine.  Because it must be either that or the tie unrecognised by civilisation.  And which would be better for you?  I do not know yet.  I ask more time.  Don’t write me.  Your silence will accord it.

“You are always in my thoughts.

“VALERIE.”

Ogilvy came into the studio that afternoon, loquacious, in excellent humour, and lighting a pipe, detailed what news he had while Neville tried to hide his own deep perplexity and anxiety under a cordial welcome.

“You know,” said Ogilvy, “that all the time you’ve given me and all your kindness and encouragement has made a corker of that picture of mine.”

“You did it yourself,” said Neville.  “It’s good work, Sam.”

“Sure it’s good work—­being mostly yours.  And what do you think, Kelly; it’s sold!”

“Good for you!”

“Certainly it’s good for me.  I need the mazuma.  A courteous multi purchased it for his Long Branch cottage—­said cottage costing a million.  What?”

“Oh, you’re doing very well,” laughed Neville.

“I’ve got to....  I’ve—­h’m!—­undertaken to assume obligations toward civilisation—­h’m!—­and certain duties to my—­h’m—­country—­”

“What on earth are you driving at?” asked Neville, eying him.

“Huh!  Driving single just at present; practising for tandem—­h’m!—­and a spike—­h’m—­some day—­I hope—­of course—­”

“Sam!”

“Hey?”

“Are you trying to say something?”

“Oh, Lord, no!  Why, Kelly, did you suspect that I was really attempting to convey anything to you which I was really too damned embarrassed to tell you in the patois of my native city?”

“It sounded that way,” observed Neville, smiling.

“Did it?” Ogilvy considered, head on one side.  “Did it sound anything like a—­h’m!—­a man who was trying to—­h’m!—­to tell you that he was going to—­h’m!—­to try to get somebody to try to let him try to tell her that he wanted to—­marry her?”

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Neville, bewildered, “what do you mean?”

Ogilvy pirouetted, picked up a mahl-stick, and began a lively fencing bout with an imaginary adversary.

“I’m going to get married,” he said amiably.

“What!”

“Sure.”

“To whom?”

“To Helene d’Enver.  Only she doesn’t know it yet.”