I laughed and quoted the Latin tag about the ingenuous boy of the ingenuous visage and ingenuous modesty.

“Because I don’t feverishly search the postbag for a letter from Miss Faversham you conclude I’m a bloodless automaton?”

“Please don’t say any more about it, Simon,” he pleaded in deep distress.

A sudden idea struck me.  I reflected, walked to the window, and, having made up my mind, sat down again.  I had a weapon to hand which I had overlooked, and with the discovery came a weak craving for the boy’s sympathy.  I believe I care more for him than for any living creature.  I decided to give him some notion of my position.

Sooner or later he would have to learn it.

“I would rather like to tell you something,” said I, “about my engagement—­in confidence, of course.  When Eleanor Faversham comes back I propose to ask her to release me from it.”

He drew a long breath.  “I’m glad.  She’s an awfully nice girl, but she’s no more in love with you than my mother is.  But it’ll be rather difficult, won’t it?”

“I don’t think so,” I replied, shaking my head.  “It’s a question of health.  My doctors absolutely forbid it.”

A look of affectionate alarm sprang into his eyes.  He broke into sympathy.  My health?  Why had I not told him before?  In Heaven’s name, what was the matter with me?

“Something silly,” said I.  “Nothing you need worry about on my account.  Only I must go piano for the rest of my days.  Marriage isn’t to be thought of.  There is something else I must tell you.  I must resign my seat.”

“Resign your seat?  Give up Parliament?  When?”

“As soon as possible.”

He looked at me aghast, as if the world were coming to an end.

“We had better concoct an epistle to Raggles this morning.”

“But you can’t be serious?”

“I can sometimes, my dear Dale.  This is one of the afflicting occasions.”

“You out of Parliament?  You out of public life?  It’s inconceivable.  It’s damnable.  But you’re just coming into your own—­what Raggles said, what I told you yesterday.  But it can’t be.  You can hold on.  I’ll do all the drudgery for you.  I’ll work night and day.”

And he tramped up and down the room, uttering the disconnected phrases which an honest young soul unaccustomed to express itself emotionally blurts out in moments of deep feeling.

“It’s no use, Dale,” said I, “I’ve got my marching orders.”

“But why should they come just now?”

“When the sweets of office are dangling at my lips?  It’s pretty simple.”  I laughed.  “It’s one of the little ironies that please the high gods so immensely.  They have an elementary sense of humour—­like that of the funny fellow who pulls your chair from under you and shrieks with laughter when you go wallop on to the floor.  Well, I don’t grudge them their amusement.  They must have a dull time settling mundane affairs, and a little joke goes a long way with them, as it does in the House of Commons.  Fancy sitting on those green benches legislating for all eternity, with never a recess and never even a dinner hour!  Poor high gods!  Let us pity them.”