Youghal chuckled responsively.  It was an undoubted opportunity for him to put in some disparaging criticism of Comus, and Elaine sat alert in readiness to judge the critic and reserve judgment on the criticised.

“His selfishness is splendid but absolutely futile,” said Youghal; “now my selfishness is commonplace, but always thoroughly practical and calculated.  He will have great difficulty in getting the swans to accept his offering, and he incurs the odium of reducing us to a bread-and-butterless condition.  Incidentally he will get very hot.”

Elaine again had the sense of being thoroughly baffled.  If Youghal had said anything unkind it was about himself.

“If my cousin Suzette had been here,” she observed, with the shadow of a malicious smile on her lips, “I believe she would have gone into a flood of tears at the loss of her bread-and-butter, and Comus would have figured ever after in her mind as something black and destroying and hateful.  In fact I don’t really know why we took our loss so unprotestingly.”

“For two reasons,” said Youghal; “you are rather fond of Comus.  And I—­am not very fond of bread-and-butter.”

The jesting remark brought a throb of pleasure to Elaine’s heart.  She had known full well that she cared for Comus, but now that Courtenay Youghal had openly proclaimed the fact as something unchallenged and understood matters seemed placed at once on a more advanced footing.  The warm sunlit garden grew suddenly into a Heaven that held the secret of eternal happiness.  Youth and comeliness would always walk here, under the low-boughed mulberry trees, as unchanging as the leaden otter that for ever preyed on the leaden salmon on the edge of the old fountain, and somehow the lovers would always wear the aspect of herself and the boy who was talking to the four white swans by the water steps.  Youghal was right; this was the real Heaven of one’s dreams and longings, immeasurably removed from that Rue de la Paix Paradise about which one professed utterly insincere hankerings in places of public worship.  Elaine drank her tea in a happy silence; besides being a brilliant talker Youghal understood the rarer art of being a non-talker on occasion.

Comus came back across the grass swinging the empty basket-dish in his hand.

“Swans were very pleased,” he cried, gaily, “and said they hoped I would keep the bread-and-butter dish as a souvenir of a happy tea-party.  I may really have it, mayn’t I?” he continued in an anxious voice; “it will do to keep studs and things in.  You don’t want it.”

“It’s got the family crest on it,” said Elaine.  Some of the happiness had died out of her eyes.

“I’ll have that scratched off and my own put on,” said Comus.

“It’s been in the family for generations,” protested Elaine, who did not share Comus’s view that because you were rich your lesser possessions could have no value in your eyes.