“I’ve been quite busy,” I said.

This remark seemed to please him immensely.

“What a sly old chap you are,” said he; “really, I shall have to go back to the inn and watch you.”

“What the deuce do you mean?” I demanded.

He looked me over in well-bred astonishment and replied: 

“Hang me, Crocker, if I can make you out.  You seem to know the world pretty well, and yet when a fellow twits you on a little flirtation you act as though you were going to black his eyes.”

“A little flirtation!” I repeated, aghast.

“Oh, well,” he said, smiling, “we won’t quarrel over a definition.  Call it anything you like.”

“Don’t you think this a little uncalled for?” I asked, beginning to lose my temper.

“Bless you, no.  Not among friends:  not among such friends as we are.”

“I didn’t know we were such devilish good friends,” I retorted warmly.

“Oh, yes, we are, devilish good friends,” he answered with assurance; “known each other from boyhood, and all that.  And I say, old chap,” he added, “you needn’t be jealous of me, you know.  I got out of that long ago.  And I’m after something else now.”

For a space I was speechless.  Then the ludicrous side of the matter struck me, and I laughed in spite of myself.  Better, after all, to deal with a fool according to his folly.  The Celebrity glanced at the door and drew his chair closer to mine.

“Crocker,” he said confidentially, “I’m glad you came here to-day.  There is a thing or two I wished to consult you about.”

“Professional?” I asked, trying to head him off.

“No,” he replied, “amateur,—­beastly amateur.  A bungle, if I ever made one.  The truth is, I executed rather a faux pas over there at Asquith.  Tell me,” said he, diving desperately at the root of it, “how does Miss Trevor feel about my getting out?  I meant to let her down easier; ’pon my word, I did.”

This is a way rascals have of judging other men by themselves.

“Well;” said I, “it was rather a blow, of course.”

“Of course,” he assented.

“And all the more unexpected,” I went on, “from a man who has written reams on constancy.”

I flatter myself that this nearly struck home, for he was plainly annoyed.

“Oh, bother that!” said he.  “How many gowns believe in their own sermons?  How many lawyers believe in their own arguments?”

“Unhappily, not as many as might.”

“I don’t object to telling you, old chap,” he continued, “that I went in a little deeper than I intended.  A good deal deeper, in fact.  Miss Trevor is a deuced fine girl, and all that; but absolutely impossible.  I forgot myself, and I confess I was pretty close to caught.”

“I congratulate you,” I said gravely.

“That’s the point of it.  I don’t know that I’m out of the woods yet.  I wanted to see you and find out how she was acting.”