"We will see--we will see," Selingman went on, a little impatiently. "Come, I have nothing to do--nothing whatever. I came to London to see you, Maraton. You must put up with me. Work--put it away. The sun shines. Let us all go into the country. I will get a car. Or what of the river? Perhaps not. I am too restless, I cannot sit still. I will walk about always. And I cannot swim. We will take a car and sometimes we will walk. I go to fetch it now, eh?" Maraton glanced helplessly at Julia. They both laughed. "I have to be back at four o'clock," the former said. "I have an appointment at the House of Commons then." "Excellent!" Selingman declared. "I go there with you. Your House of Commons always fascinates me. I hear you speak, perhaps? No? What does it matter? I will hear the others drone. I go to fetch a car." Maraton held out his hand. "I have a car," he observed. "It is waiting now at the back entrance. You had better get your things on, Miss Thurnbrein. I can see that we have come under the influence of a master spirit." She looked at the pile of letters by her side, but Maraton only shook his head. "We must parody his own phrase and declare that 'Selingman is here!'" he said. "Go and put your things on and tell Aaron. We will steal out like conspirators at the back door." They lunched at a roadside inn in Buckinghamshire, an inn ivy-covered, with a lawn behind, and a garden full of cottage flowers. Selingman with his own hands dragged out the table from the little sitting-room, through the open windows to a shaded corner of the lawn, drew the cork from a bottle of wine, and taking off his coat, started to make a salad. "Insects everywhere," he remarked cheerfully. "Hold your parasol over my salad, please, Miss Julia. So! What does it matter? Where there are flowers and trees there must be insects. Let them live their day of life." "So long as we don't eat them!" Julia protested. "I have tasted insects in South America which were delicious," Selingman assured them. "There--leave your parasol over the salad, and, Maraton, move the ice-pail a little more into the shade. Now, while they set the luncheon, we will walk in that little flower garden, and I will tell you, if you like, a story of mine I once wrote, the story of two roses. I published it, alas! It is so hard to save even our most beautiful thoughts from the vulgarity of print, in these days where everything--love and wine, and even the roses themselves--cost money. Bah!" "The story, please," Julia begged. He walked in the middle and took an arm of each of his companions. "So you would hear my little story?" he exclaimed. "Then listen."