Grandcourt said “yes,” to be rid of him; but Dysart turned around with his usual smile of amused contempt.

“You think so, too, Delancy,” he said, “because what is obvious and ready-made appeals to you.  You think as you eat—­heavily—­and you miss a few things.  That little Seagrave girl is charming.  But you’d never discover it.”

Grandcourt slowly removed the fat cigar from his lips, rolled it meditatively between thick forefinger and thumb: 

“Do you know, Jack, that you’ve been saying that sort of thing to me for a number of years?”

“Yes; and it’s just as true now as it ever was, old fellow.”

“That may be; but did it ever occur to you that I might get tired hearing it....  And might, possibly, resent it some day?”

For a long time Dysart had been uncomfortably conscious that Grandcourt had had nearly enough of his half-sneering, half-humourous frankness.  His liking for Grandcourt, even as a schoolboy, had invariably been tinged with tolerance and good-humoured contempt.  Dysart had always led in everything; taken what he chose without considering Grandcourt—­sometimes out of sheer perversity, he had taken what Grandcourt wanted—­not really wanting it himself—­as in the case of Rosalie Dene.

“What are you talking about resenting?—­my monopolising your dinner partner?” asked Dysart, smiling.  “Take her; amuse yourself.  I don’t want her.”

Grandcourt inspected his cigar again.  “I’m tired of that sort of thing, too,” he said.

“What sort of thing?”

“Contenting myself with what you don’t want.”

Dysart lit a cigarette, still smiling, then shrugged and turned as though to go.  Around them through the smoke rose the laughing clamour of young men gathering at the exit.

“I want to tell you something,” said Grandcourt heavily.  “I’m an ass to do it, but I want to tell you.”

Dysart halted patiently.

“It’s this,” went on Grandcourt:  “between you and my mother, I’ve never had a chance; she makes me out a fool and you have always assumed it to be true.”

Dysart glanced at him with amused contempt.

A heavy flush rose to Grandcourt’s cheek-bones.  He said slowly: 

“I want my chance.  You had better let me have it when it comes.”

“What chance do you mean?”

“I mean—­a woman.  All my life you’ve been at my elbow to step in.  You took what you wanted—­your shadow always falls between me and anybody I’m inclined to like....  It happened to-night—­as usual....  And I tell you now, at last, I’m tired of it.”

“What a ridiculous idea you seem to have of me,” began Dysart, laughing.

“I’m afraid of you.  I always was.  Now—­let me alone!”

“Have you ever known me, since I’ve been married—­” He caught Grandcourt’s eye, stammered, and stopped short.  Then:  “You certainly are absurd.  Delancy!  I wouldn’t deliberately interfere with you or disturb a young girl’s peace of mind.  The trouble with you is——­”