He coloured.  “Rot!” said he, in his breezy way.  “Hallo!  The curtain’s going up.  What’s the next item?  Oh, those fool dogs!”

“I adore performing dogs!” said Agatha, looking toward the stage.

He turned to me.  “Do you?”

The last thing on earth I desired to behold at that moment was a performing animal.  My sensitiveness led me to suspect a quizzical look in Dale’s eye.  Fortunately, he did not wait for my answer, but went on in a boyish attempt to appease Agatha.

“I don’t despise them, you know, Lady Durrell, but I’ve seen them twice before.  They’re really rather good.  There’s a football match at the end which is quite exciting.”

“Oh, the beauties!” cried Agatha over her shoulder as the dogs trotted on the stage.  I nodded an acknowledgment of the remark, and she plunged into rapt contemplation of the act.  Dale and I stood at the back of the box.  Suddenly he whispered: 

“Come out into the corridor.  I’ve something to say to you.”

“Certainly,” said I, and followed him out of the box.

He thrust his hands into his pockets and looked at me with the defiant and you-be-damned air of the young Briton who was about to commit a gracious action.  I knew what he was going to say.  I could tell by his manner.  I dreaded it, and yet I loved him for it.

“Why say anything, my dear boy?” I asked.  “You want to be friends with me again, and God knows I want to be friends again with you.  Why talk?”

“I’ve got to get if off my chest,” said he, in his so familiar vernacular.  “I want to tell you that I’ve been every end of a silly ass and I want you to forgive me.”

I vow I have never felt so miserably guilty towards any human being as I did at that moment.  I have never felt such a smug-faced hypocrite.  It was a humiliating position.  I had inflicted on him a most grievous wrong, and here he was pleading for forgiveness.  I could not pronounce the words of pardon.  He misinterpreted my silence.

“I know I’ve behaved rottenly to you since you’ve been back, but the first step’s always so difficult.  You mustn’t bear a grudge against me.”

“My dear boy!” I cried, my hand on his shoulder, touched to the heart by his simple generosity, “don’t let us talk of grudges and forgiveness.  All I want to know is whether you’re contented?”

“Contented?” he cried.  “I should just think I am.  I’m the happiest ass that doesn’t eat thistles!”

“Explain yourself, my dear Dale,” said I, relapsing into my old manner.

“I’m going to marry Maisie Ellerton.”

I took him by the arm and dragged him inside the box.

“Agatha,” said I, “leave those confounded dogs for a moment and attend to serious matters.  This young man has not come up to see either of us, but to obtain our congratulations.  He’s going to marry Maisie Ellerton.”

“Tell me all about it,” said Agatha intensely interested.