How proud I am of my presence of mind!  “Hallo,” I said instantly in a loud and naive tone, “somebody’s breaking your windows, Schomberg.  Would you please tell one of your boys to bring out here a pack of cards and a couple of lights?  And two long drinks.  Will you?”

To receive an order soothed him at once.  It was business.  “Certainly,” he said in an immensely relieved tone.  The night was rainy, with wandering gusts of wind, and while we waited for the candles Falk said, as if to justify his panic, “I don’t interfere in anybody’s business.  I don’t give any occasion for talk.  I am a respectable man.  But this fellow is always making out something wrong, and can never rest till he gets somebody to believe him.”

This was the first of my knowledge of Falk.  This desire of respectability, of being like everybody else, was the only recognition he vouchsafed to the organisation of mankind.  For the rest he might have been the member of a herd, not of a society.  Self-preservation was his only concern.  Not selfishness, but mere self-preservation.  Selfishness presupposes consciousness, choice, the presence of other men; but his instinct acted as though he were the last of mankind nursing that law like the only spark of a sacred fire.  I don’t mean to say that living naked in a cavern would have satisfied him.  Obviously he was the creature of the conditions to which he was born.  No doubt self-preservation meant also the preservation of these conditions.  But essentially it meant something much more simple, natural, and powerful.  How shall I express it?  It meant the preservation of the five senses of his body—­let us say—­taking it in its narrowest as well as in its widest meaning.  I think you will admit before long the justice of this judgment.  However, as we stood there together in the dark verandah I had judged nothing as yet—­and I had no desire to judge—­which is an idle practice anyhow.  The light was long in coming.

“Of course,” I said in a tone of mutual understanding, “it isn’t exactly a game of cards I want with you.”

I saw him draw his hands down his face—­the vague stir of the passionate and meaningless gesture; but he waited in silent patience.  It was only when the lights had been brought out that he opened his lips.  I understood his mumble to mean that “he didn’t know any game.”

“Like this Schomberg and all the other fools will have to keep off,” I said tearing open the pack.  “Have you heard that we are universally supposed to be quarrelling about a girl?  You know who—­of course.  I am really ashamed to ask, but is it possible that you do me the honour to think me dangerous?”