How can I refuse?  But I wish she were here.

31st October.

I did not sleep last night.  I have done no work to-day.  The Renaissance has receded into a Glacial Epoch wherein, as far as its humanity is concerned, I have not a tittle of interest.  I sought refuge in the club.  Why should an old sober University club be such a haven of unrest?  Ponting, an opinionated don of Corpus, seated himself at my luncheon table, and discoursed on political economy and golf.  I manifested a polite ignorance of these high matters.  He assured me that if I studied the one and played at the other, I should be physically and mentally more robust; whereupon he thumped his narrow chest, and put on a scowl of intellectuality.  I fear that Ponting, like most of the men here, studies golf and plays at political economy.  In serener moments I suffer Ponting gladly.  But to-day his boast that he had done the course at Westward Ho! in seven, or seventeen, or seventy—­how on earth should I remember?—­left me cold, and his crude economics interfered with my digestion.

Strolling forlornly down Piccadilly I, came face to face with my sad-coloured Cousin Rosalie in a sad-coloured gown.  She gave me a hasty nod and would have passed on, but I arrested her.  Her white face was turned piteously upward and from her expressionless eyes flashed a glance of fear.  I felt myself in a brutal mood.

“Why,” I asked, “are you avoiding me as if I were a pestilence?”

She murmured that she was not avoiding me, but was in a hurry.

“I don’t believe it,” said I.  “People have been telling you that I am a vile, wicked man who does unspeakable things, and like a good little girl you are afraid to talk to me.  Tell people, the next time you see them, with my compliments, that they are malevolent geese.”

I lifted my hat and relieving Rosalie of my terrifying presence, walked away in dudgeon.  I felt abominably and unreasonably angry.  I bethought me of my Aunt Jessica, whom I held responsible for her niece’s behaviour.  A militant mood prompted a call.  After twenty minutes in a hansom I found myself in her drawing-room.  She was alone, the girls being away on country- house visits.  Her reception was glacial.  I expressed the hope that the yachting cruise had been a pleasant one.

“Exceedingly pleasant,” snapped my aunt.

“I trust Dora is well,” said I, keeping from my lips a smile that might have hinted at the broken heart.

“Very well, thank you.”

As I do not enjoy a staccato conversation, I remained politely silent, inviting her by my attitude to speak.

“I rather wonder, Marcus,” she said at last, “at your referring to Dora.”

“Indeed?  May I ask why?”

“May I speak plainly?”

“I beseech you.”

“I have heard of you at Etretat with your ward.”

“Well?” I asked.

“Verbum sap,” said my aunt.