“You will think I am ungrateful, I am afraid,” he began, “but, do you know, I am losing hold upon my work, and I have come to the conclusion that I am giving a good deal too much of my time to going out.  Thanks to you, I seem to have invitations for almost every day—­I go to polo matches, to river parties, to dinners and dances, I do everything except work.  You know that I have made a fair start, and I feel that I ought to be making some uses of my opportunities.  Besides—­I may be quite frank with you, I know—­I am spending a great deal more than I am earning, and that won’t do, will it?”

She came over and sat by his side on the couch.  There was not the slightest sign of disapproval in her manner.

“Do you know, that sounds very sensible, Douglas my friend,” she said, quietly.  “I should hate to think that I was selfish in liking to have you with me so much, and your work is the first thing, of course.  Only you mustn’t forget this.  Your profession is settled now irrevocably.  You will be a writer, and a famous writer, and one reason why I have procured all these invitations for you, and encouraged you to accept them, has been because I want you to grasp life as a whole.  You think that you are idling now.  You are not.  Every new experience you gain is of value to you.  Hitherto you have only seen life through dun-coloured spectacles.  I want you also to understand the other side.  It is your business to know and grasp it from all points.  Can’t you see that I have found it a pleasure to help you to see that side of which you were ignorant?”

“That is all very true,” he answered, “only I have already had more opportunities than most men.  Don’t you think yourself that it is almost time I buckled to and started life more seriously?”

“It is for you to say,” she answered quietly.  “You know better than I. If you have work in your brain and you are weary of other things—­well, au revoir, and good luck to you.  Only you will come and see me now and then, and tell me how you are getting on, for I shall be a little lonely just at first.”

She looked at him with eyes a trifle dim, and Douglas felt his heart beat thickly, and the memory of Rice’s passionate words seemed suddenly weak.

“I shall come and see you always,” he said, “as often as you would have me come.  You know that.”

She shook her head as though but half convinced.  Then she rose to her feet.

“There is just one thing I should like to ask you,” she said.  “This new resolution of yours—­did you come by it alone, or has any one been advising you?”

Douglas hesitated.

“I have been talking to a man,” he admitted, “who certainly seemed to think that I was neglecting my work.”

“Will you tell me who it was?”

Douglas looked into her face and became suddenly grave.  The eyes were narrower and brighter, a glint of white teeth showed through the momentarily parted lips.  A tiny spot of colour burned in her cheeks—­something of the wild animal seemed suddenly to have leaped up in her.  Yet how beautiful she was!