“But, William, old bird—­”

“Oh, I know, I know, I know!” said Bill, irritably.  “You’re surprised to hear me talk like that about her?”

“A trifle, yes.  Possibly a trifle.  When last heard from, laddie, you must recollect, you were speaking of the lady as your soul-mate, and at least once—­if I remember rightly—­you alluded to her as your little dusky-haired lamb.”

A sharp howl escaped Bill.

“Don’t!” A strong shudder convulsed his frame.  “Don’t remind me of it!”

“There’s been a species of slump, then, in dusky-haired lambs?”

“How,” demanded Bill, savagely, “can-a girl be a dusky-haired lamb when her hair’s bright scarlet?”

“Dashed difficult!” admitted Archie.

“I suppose Lucille told you about that?”

“She did touch on it.  Lightly, as it were.  With a sort of gossamer touch, so to speak.”

Bill threw off the last fragments of reserve.

“Archie, I’m in the devil of a fix.  I don’t know why it was, but directly I saw her—­things seemed so different over in England—­I mean.”  He swallowed ice-water in gulps.  “I suppose it was seeing her with Lucille.  Old Lu is such a thoroughbred.  Seemed to kind of show her up.  Like seeing imitation pearls by the side of real pearls.  And that crimson hair!  It sort of put the lid on it.”  Bill brooded morosely.  “It ought to be a criminal offence for women to dye their hair.  Especially red.  What the devil do women do that sort of thing for?”

“Don’t blame me, old thing.  It’s not my fault.”

Bill looked furtive and harassed.

“It makes me feel such a cad.  Here am I, feeling that I would give all I’ve got in the world to get out of the darned thing, and all the time the poor girl seems to be getting fonder of me than ever.”

“How do you know?” Archie surveyed his brother-in-law critically.  “Perhaps her feelings have changed too.  Very possibly she may not like the colour of your hair.  I don’t myself.  Now if you were to dye yourself crimson—­”

“Oh, shut up!  Of course a man knows when a girl’s fond of him.”

“By no means, laddie.  When you’re my age—­”

“I am your age.”

“So you are!  I forgot that.  Well, now, approaching the matter from another angle, let us suppose, old son, that Miss What’s-Her-Name—­ the party of the second part—­”

“Stop it!” said Bill suddenly.  “Here comes Reggie!”

“Eh?”

“Here comes Reggie van Tuyl.  I don’t want him to hear us talking about the darned thing.”

Archie looked over his shoulder and perceived that it was indeed so.  Reggie was threading his way among the tables.

“Well, he looks pleased with things, anyway,” said Bill, enviously.  “Glad somebody’s happy.”

He was right.  Reggie van Tuyl’s usual mode of progress through a restaurant was a somnolent slouch.  Now he was positively bounding along.  Furthermore, the usual expression on Reggie’s face was a sleepy sadness.  Now he smiled brightly and with animation.  He curveted towards their table, beaming and erect, his head up, his gaze level, and his chest expanded, for all the world as if he had been reading the hints in “The Personality That Wins.”