A plague on Dale for becoming infatuated with Lola Brandt.  A plague on him for beguiling me to her acquaintance; for bursting into the room at that unfortunate moment; for his generous, unsuspecting love for me; for his youth and hope and charm; for asking me to dine with Lola and himself in ripping cosiness.

A plague on myself—­just to show that I am broad-minded.

And lastly, a plague, a special plague, a veritable murrain on Lola Brandt for complicating the splendid singleness of my purpose.  I don’t know what to think of myself.  I have become a common conundrum—­which provides the lowest form of intellectual amusement.  It is all her fault.

Listen.  I set out to free a young man of brilliant promise, at his mother’s earnest entreaty, from an entanglement with an impossible lady, and to bring him to the feet of the most charming girl in the world who is dying of love for him.  Could intentions be simpler or more honourable or more praiseworthy?

I find myself, after two or three weeks, the lady’s warm personal friend, to a certain extent her champion bound by a quixotic oath to restore her husband to her arms, and regarding my poor Dale with a feeling which is neither more nor less than green-eyed jealousy.  I am praying heaven to grant his adoption by the Wymington committee, not because it will be the first step of the ladder of his career, but because the work and excitement of a Parliamentary election will prohibit overmuch lounging in my chair in Lola Brandt’s drawing-room.

Is there any drug I wonder which can restore a eumoirous tone to the system?

Of course, Dale came round to my chambers in the evening and talked about Lola and himself and me until I sent him home to bed.  He kept on repeating at intervals that I was glorious.  I grew tired at last of the eulogy, and, adopting his vernacular, declared that I should be jolly glad to get out of this rubbishy world.  He protested.  There was never such a world.  It was gorgeous.  What was wrong with it, anyway?  As I could not show him the Commination Service, I picked imaginary flaws in the universe.  I complained of its amateurishness of design.  But Dale, who loves fact, was not drawn into a theological disputation.

“Do you know, I had a deuce of a shock when I came into Lola’s this afternoon?” he cried irrelevantly, with a loud laugh.  “I thought—­it was a damnable and idiotic thing to come into my head—­but I couldn’t help thinking you had cut me out!  I wanted to tell you.  You must forgive me for being such an ass.  And I want to thank you for being so good to her while I was away.  She has been telling me.  You like her, don’t you?  I knew you would.  No one can help it.  Besides being other things, she’s is such a good sort, isn’t she?”

I admitted her many excellencies, while he walked about the room.

“By Jove!” he cried, coming to a halt.  “I’ve got a grand idea.  My little plan has succeeded so well with you that I’ve a good mind to try it on my mother.”