“Don’t you?  Then I won’t.  I love a man to speak straight to me.  I respect him.  Here’s my hand.”  He wrung Septimus’s hand warmly.  “I feel that we are going to be friends.  I’m never wrong.  I hope Mrs. Middlemist will allow me to be a friend.  Tell me about her.”

Septimus again reddened uncomfortably.  He belonged to a class which does not discuss its women with a stranger even though he be a newly sworn brother.

“She mightn’t care for it,” he said.

Sypher once more clapped him on the shoulder.  “Good again!” he cried, admiringly.  “I shouldn’t like you half so much if you had told me.  I’ve got to know, for I know everything, so I’ll ask her myself.”

Zora came down coated and veiled, her face radiant as a Romney in its frame of gauze.  She looked so big and beautiful, and Sypher looked so big and strong, and both seemed so full of vitality, that Septimus felt criminally insignificant.  His voice was of too low a pitch to make itself carry when these two spoke in their full tones.  He shrank into his shell.  Had he not realized, in his sensitive way, that without him as a watchdog—­ineffectual spaniel that he was—­Zora would not accept Clem Sypher’s invitation, he would have excused himself from the drive.  He differentiated, not conceitedly, between Clem Sypher and himself.  She had driven alone with him on her first night at Monte Carlo.  But then she had carried him off between her finger and thumb, so to speak, as the Brobdingnagian ladies carried off Gulliver.  He knew that he did not count as a danger in the eyes of high-spirited young women.  A man like Sypher did.  He knew that Zora would not have driven alone with Sypher any more than with the wretch of the evil eyes.  He did not analyze this out himself, as his habit of mind was too vague and dreamy.  But he knew it instinctively, as a dog knows whom he can trust with his mistress and whom he cannot.  So when Sypher and Zora, with a great bustle of life, were discussing seating arrangements in the car, he climbed modestly into the front seat next to the chauffeur, and would not be dislodged by Sypher’s entreaties.  He was just there, on guard, having no place in the vigorous atmosphere of their personalities.  He sat aloof, smoking his pipe, and wondering whether he could invent a motor perambulator which could run on rails round a small garden, fill the baby’s lungs with air, and save the British Army from the temptation of nursery-maids.  His sporadic discourse on the subject perplexed the chauffeur.

It was a day of vivid glory.  Rain had fallen heavily during the night, laying the dust on the road and washing to gay freshness the leaves of palms and gold-spotted orange trees and the purple bourgainvillea and other flowers that rioted on wayside walls.  All the deep, strong color of the South was there, making things unreal:  the gray mountains, fragile masses against the solid cobalt of the sky.  The Mediterranean met the horizon in a blue so intense that the soul ached to see it.  The heart of spring throbbed in the deep bosom of summer.  The air as they sped through it was like cool spiced wine.