‘Where the wild roses grow,’ said Merton.

’I don’t know many of the men, though I see faces that one used to see in the High.  There is Mr. Yorker, the athletic man.  What is he doing now?’

’He is sub-vice-secretary of a cricket club.  His income depends on his bat and his curl from leg.  But he has a rich aunt.’

’Cricket does not lead to much, any more than my ability to read the worst handwritings of the darkest ages.  Who is the man that the beautiful lady opposite is making laugh so?’ asked Miss Willoughby, without moving her lips.

Merton wrote ‘Bulstrode of Trinity’ on the back of the menu.

‘What does he do?’

‘Nothing,’ said Merton in a low voice.  ’Been alligator farming, or ostrich farming, or ranching, and come back shorn; they all come back.  He wants to be an ecclesiastical “chucker out,” and cope with Mr. Kensitt and Co.  New profession.’

‘He ought not to be here.  He can ride and shoot.’

‘He is the only son of his mother and she is a widow.’

’He ought to go out.  My only brother is out.  I wish I were a man.  I hate dawdlers.’  She looked at him:  her eyes were large and grey under black lashes, they were dark and louring.

‘Have you, by any chance, a spark of the devil in you?’ asked Merton, taking a social header.

‘I have been told so, and sometimes thought so,’ said Miss Willoughby.  ’Perhaps this one will go out by fasting if not by prayer.  Yes, I have a spark of the Accuser of the Brethren.’

‘Tant mieux,’ thought Merton.

All the people were talking and laughing now.  Miss Maskelyne told a story to the table.  She did a trick with a wine glass, forks, and a cork.  Logan interviewed Miss Martin, who wrote tales for the penny fiction people, on her methods.  Had she a moral aim, a purpose?  Did she create her characters first, and let them evolve their fortunes, or did she invent a plot, and make her characters fit in?

Miss Martin said she began with a situation:  ’I wish I could get one somewhere as secretary to a man of letters.’

‘They can’t afford secretaries,’ said Logan.  ’Besides they are family men, married men, and so—­’

‘And so what?’

‘Go look in any glass, and say,’ said Logan, laughing.  ’But how do you begin with a situation?’

‘Oh, anyhow.  A lot of men in a darkened room.  Pitch dark.’

‘A seance?’

’No, a conspiracy.  They are in the dark that when arrested they may swear they never saw each other.’

‘They could swear that anyhow.’

’Conspirators have consciences.  Then there comes a red light shining between the door and the floor.  Then the door breaks down under a hammer, the light floods the room.  There is a man in it whom the others never saw enter.’

‘How did he get in?’

’He was there before they came.  Then the fighting begins.  At the end of it where is the man?’