“In Heaven’s name, Simon,” he cried, laying down his pencil, “what has come over you?”

“Old age,” said I.

He uttered his usual interjection, and added that I was only thirty-seven.

“Age is a relative thing,” I remarked.  “Babes of five have been known to die of senile decay, and I have seen irresponsible striplings of seventy.”

“I really think Eleanor Faversham had better come back from Sicily.”

I tapped the letter still in my hand.  “She’s coming.”

“I’m jolly glad to hear it.  It’s all my silly fault that she went away.  I thought she was getting on your nerves.  But you want pulling together.  That confounded place you’ve been to has utterly upset you.”

“On the contrary,” said I, “it has steadied and amplified my conception of sublunary affairs.  It has shown me that motley is much more profitable wear than the edged toga of the senator—­”

“Oh, for God’s sake, dry up,” cried young England, “and tell me what answers I’m to give these people!”

He seemed so earnest about it that I humoured him; and my correspondents seemed so earnest that I humoured them.  But it was a grim jest.  Most of the matters with which I had to deal appeared so trivial.  Only here and there did I find a chance for eumoiriety.  The Wymington Hospital applied for their annual donation.

“You generally give a tenner,” said Dale.

“This time I’ll give them a couple of hundred,” said I.

Dale earmarked the amount wonderingly; but when I ordered him to send five pounds apiece to the authors of various begging letters he argued vehemently and quoted the Charity Organisation Society.

“They’re frauds, all of them,” he maintained.

“They’re poor necessitous devils, at any rate,” said I, “and they want the money more than I do.”

This was a truth whose significance Dale was far from realising.  Of what value, indeed, is money to me?  There is none to whom I can usefully bequeath my little fortune, my sisters having each married rich men.  I shall not need even Charon’s obolus when I am dead, for we have ceased to believe in him—­which is a pity, as the trip across the Styx must have been picturesque.  Why, then, should I not deal myself a happy lot and portion by squandering my money benevolently during my lifetime?

It behooves me, however, to walk warily in this as in other matters, for if my actions too closely resemble those of a lunatic at large, trustees may be appointed to administer my affairs, which would frustrate my plans entirely.

When my part in the morning’s work was over, I informed my secretary that I would go out and take the air till lunch-time.

“If you’ve nothing better to do,” said he, “you might run round to Eccleston Square and see my mother.”

“For any particular reason?”

“She wants to see you.  Home for inebriate parrots or something.  Gave me a message for you this morning.”