“That, Lady Caroom, is unkind,” he said.  “I can assure you that throughout my career I have never made a nuisance of myself to any one.  In the House I have been a model member, and I have always obeyed my whip in fear and trembling.  At the Bar I have been mildness itself.  The St. James’s Gazette speaks of my urbanity, and the courtesy with which I have always conducted the most arduous cross-examination.  You should read the St. James’s Gazette, Lady Caroom.  I do not know the biographical editor, but it is easy to predict a future for him.  He has common-sense and insight.  The paragraph about myself touched me.  I have cut it out, and I mean to keep it always with me.”

“The Press,” she said, “have all those things cut and dried.  No doubt if you made friends with that young man he would let you read your obituary notice.  I have a friend who has corrected the proofs of his already.”

Hennibul smiled.

“My cousin Avenal, the police magistrate,” he said, “actually read his in the Times.  He was bathing at Jersey and was carried away by currents, and picked up by a Sark fishing-smack.  They took him to Sark, and he was so charmed with his surroundings and the hospitality of the people that he quite forgot to let anybody know where he was.  When he read his obituary notice he almost decided to remain dead.  He declared that it was quite impossible to live up to it.”

“Our charity now-a-days,” she remarked, “always begins with the dead.”

“Let me try and awaken yours towards the living!” he said.

She laughed.

“Are you smitten with the Brooks’ fever?” she asked.

“Mine is a fever,” he answered, “but it has nothing to do with Brooks.  I would try to awaken your charity on behalf of a perfectly worthy object, myself—­vide the St. James’s Gazette.”

“And what do you need from me more than you have?” she asked.  “Haven’t you the sole possession of my society, the right to bore me or make me happy, perhaps presently the right to feed me?”

“For a few minutes,” he answered.

“Don’t be so sure.  It may be an hour.”

“I want it,” he said, “for longer.”

Something in his tone suddenly broke through the easy lightness of their conversation.  She stole a swift side-glance at him, and understood.

“Come,” she said, “you and I are setting every one here a bad example.  This is not an occasion for tete-a-tetes.  We should be doing our duty and talking a little to every one.  Let us go back and make up for lost time.”

She rose to her feet, but found him standing in the way.  For once the long humorous mouth was set fast, his eyes were no longer full of the shadow of laughter, his tone had a new note in it, the note which a woman never fails to understand.

“Dear Lady Caroom,” he said, “I was not altogether jesting.”

She looked him in the eyes.