“Have it your way, Eames.  Eighty-two years old, I was going to say, and not yet paid for.  They want some rich foreigner to produce the money.  They are counting on van Koppen, just now; an American millionaire, you know, who comes here every year and spends a good deal of money.  But I know old Koppen.  He is no fool.  By the way, Eames, what do you think of this discover of mine?  Of course you have hear of the James-Lange theory of the Emotions, namely, that bodily changes follow directly on the perception of the existing fact and that our feeling of these same changes as they occur is the Emotion.  They developed the theory independently, and got great credit for it.  Well, I find—­what nobody seems to have noticed—­that they were anticipated by Professor Maudsley.  I’ve got a note of it in my pocket.  Here you are.  Psychology of mind, 1876, pages 472-4 et seq.; 372, 384, 386-7 Et passim.  What do you say?”

“Nothing.  I am not interested in psychology.  You know it perfectly well.

“Why not?  Wouldn’t you get more fun out of life if you were?”

“I have Perrelli.”

“Always your old Perrelli!  That reminds me, Eames.  I mean to talk to van Koppen as soon as he arrives about getting that book of yours published.  He is good for any amount.  Koppen is your man.”

There was a mischievous twinkle in his eye, as he said this.

“Please don’t,” implored Mr. Eames.  “You will annoy me very seriously.”

“Don’t be absurd, my poor fellow.”

“You can’t think how much you will annoy me!  How often have I told you—­”

“Then you must lunch with me to-day, together with the bishop.  Don’t trouble about driving to the Old Town to see your cousin,” he added to Mr. Heard.  “She is sure to be at the reception of the Duchess this afternoon.”

Mr. Eames said: 

“So sorry.  I must get back home.  I only came out to speak to a man about a collar—­for my dog, I mean.  Another day, if you don’t mind.  And no millionaires, whatever you do!”

He departed, rather awkwardly.

“He is shy,” Keith explained.  “But he can tell you all about the island.  And now come home with me, Bishop.  I feel as if it were time for luncheon.  It must be about half-past twelve.”

Mr. Heard took out his watch.

“Half-past twelve to the minute,” he said.

“I thought to.  A man’s best clock is his stomach.  We have only a few hundred yards to go.  Hot, isn’t it?  This infernal south wind. . . .”