“I’m vastly flattered!” said I.

She dismissed my sarcasm with bird-like impatience.

“Don’t be silly.  If I had thought you would like it, I should have come to you first.  I didn’t want to bore you.  But I did think you would pull me out of a hole.”

“What’s a hole?” I asked.

“I’ve paid for a box and I can’t go by myself.  How can I?  Do take me, there’s a dear.”

“I’m afraid I’m too dull for haunts of merriment,” said I.

She regarded me reproachfully.

“It isn’t often I ask you to put yourself out for me.  The last time was when I asked you to be the baby’s godfather.  And a pretty godfather you’ve been.  I bet you anything you don’t remember the name.”

“I do,” said I.

“What’s it then?”

“It’s—­it’s——­” I snapped my fingers.  The brat’s name had for the moment gone out of my distracted head.  She broke into a laugh and ran her arm through mine.

“Dorcas.”

“Yes, of course—­Dorcas.  I was going to say so.”

“Then you were going to say wrong, for it’s Dorothy.  Now you must come—­for the sake of penance.”

“I’ll do anything you please!” I cried in desperation, “so long as you’ll not talk to me of my own affairs and will let me sit as glum as ever I choose.”

Then for the first time she manifested some interest in my mood.  She put her head to one side and scanned my face narrowly.

“What’s the matter, Simon?”

“I’ve absorbed too much life the last few days,” said I, “and now I’ve got indigestion.”

“I’m sorry, dear old boy, whatever it is,” she said affectionately.  “Come round and dine at 7.30, and I promise not to worry you.”

What could I do?  I accepted.  The alternative to procuring Agatha an evening’s amusement was pacing up and down my bird-cage and beating my wings (figuratively) and perhaps my head (literally) against the bars.

“It’s awfully sweet of you,” said Agatha.  “Now I’ll rush home and dress.”

I accompanied her down the lift to the front door, and attended her to her carriage.

“I’ll do you a good turn some day, dear,” she said as she drove off.

I rather flatter myself that Agatha had no reason to complain of my dulness at dinner.  In my converse with her I was faced by various alternatives.  I might lay bare my heart, tell her of my love for Lola and my bewildered despair at her desertion; this I knew she would no more understand than if I had proclaimed a mad passion for a young lady who had waited on me at a tea-shop, or for a cassowary at the Zoo; even the best and most affectionate of sisters have their sympathetic limitations.  I might have maintained a mysterious and Byronic gloom; this would have been sheer bad manners.  I might have attributed my lack of spontaneous gaiety to toothache or stomach-ache; this would have aroused sisterly and matronly sympathies,