“You know how much mother and I interfere with one another,” she answered.  “Besides, I have several friends who are on your list, and who are sent for now and then—­Edie Gresham and Mary Forbrooke.”  “It is rough work,” he said; “but, of course, if you like, my secretary shall put your name down, and you will get a card then telling you what week to come.  It will be every afternoon for a week, you know.  Then you are qualified, and we might send for you at any time if we were short.”

“I should come,” she said.

A coach passed by, with its brilliant load of women in bright gowns and picture hats, and two or three immaculate men.  They both looked up, and followed it with their eyes.

“Lord Arranmore,” Sybil exclaimed, “and that is the Duchess of Eversleigh with him on the box.  It doesn’t seem—­the same man, does it?”

Brooks smiled a little bitterly.

“The same man,” he repeated.  “No!”

They were silent for a few moments.  Then Sybil turned towards him with a little impetuous movement.

“Come,” she said, “let us talk about yourself now.  What are you going to do?”

“To do?” he repeated, vaguely.  “Why—­”

“About your health, of course.  You admitted a few minutes ago that you had been to see your doctor.”

“Why—­I suppose I must ease up a little.”

“Of course you must.  When will you come and dine quietly with us in Berkeley Square, and go to the theatre?”

He shook his head.

“It is kind of you,” he said, “but—­”

“When will you come and have tea with me, then?”

He set his teeth.  He had done his best.

“Whenever you choose to ask me,” he answered, with a sort of dogged resignation.

She looked at him half curiously, half tenderly.

“You are so much changed,” she murmured, “since those days at Enton.  You were a boy then, although you were a thoughtful one—­now you are a man, and when you speak like that, an old man.  Come, I want the other Mr. Brooks.”

He sat quite still.  Perhaps at that moment of detachment he realized more keenly than ever the withering nature of this battle through which he had passed.  Indeed, he felt older.  Those days at Enton lay very far back, yet the girl by his side made him feel as though they had been but yesterday.  He glanced at her covertly.  Gracious, fresh, and as beautiful as the spring itself.  What demon of mischief had possessed her that she should, with all her army of admirers, her gay life, her host of pleasures, still single him out in this way and bring back to his memory days which he had told himself he had wholly forgotten?  She was not of the world of his adoption, she belonged to the things which he had forsworn.

“The other Mr. Brooks,” he murmured, “is dead.  He has been burned in the furnace of this last wonderful year.  That is why I think—­I fear it is no use your looking for him—­and you would not wish to have a stranger to tea with you.”