“It ’as been done,” said Pembury. “I’ve done it myself. But you can bet your life it wasn’t my fault. I bathed in a fountain once—one January day.” My lady shuddered. “Exactly. I admit I got clean, but it put me off water for weeks.” “Perhaps,” said his guest. “The point is, Dick, that you did it, while I——” “So would you,” said Dick stoutly. “I mean, other things being equal, of course. One or two screens, for instance. You’re no more degenerate than I am. The best’s good enough for you, of course. And quite right too. We’re all of us out for the very best we can get.” “I’ve got it to-night, any way.” Thoughtfully the man regarded her beautiful fingers. He may be forgiven. The fierce light of the little table-lamp could find no fault in them. “Thank you, Dot,” he said quietly. Then he gave a light laugh. “But that’s because you oughtn’t to be here.” “But I ought,” said my lady. “It’s most appropriate. _Après vous_—the deluge. To-morrow I take the plunge. I’m dining with you for support—ginger. You’re my Best Man. If the truth were known, my future husband is probably seeking inspiration at the hands of his best girl.” “I’ll bet you’ve told no one.” “I didn’t inform the Press, if that’s what you mean. All’s fish that comes to Scandal’s net. Though why I mayn’t dine with you to-night and announce my engagement to Hilton to-morrow morning I fail to see.” “Degeneration,” said Pembury. “That’s the answer. Not ours—the world’s. The blinkin’ age is degenerate. People would immediately assume there was something wrong. ‘Engaged to one cove,’ they’ld wheeze, ‘an’ dinin’ out with another? Hul-_lo_!’ And they’ld wink an’ wag their heads an’ lick their thick lips . . . Oh, it makes me tired, Dot. It’s made me tired for years. We’re not hot stuff, you and I. Then why should we be branded? But we should. If we were charged with stealing, people’ld shriek with laughter. They know we’re honest and they’ld know there’d been a mistake. But just hint that we’ve been forgathering, and our respective reputations’ld be blown inside out.” My lady regarded the end of her cigarette. “Yes,” she said slowly, “they would. It’s bitterly unfair, but they would. But was there an age when they wouldn’t?” “There must have been,” said her host. “Besides, things usedn’t to be so bad. Everyone’s got a muck-rake nowadays. They almost sell ’em at the Stores.” “You haven’t,” said Lady Elizabeth. “Neither have you,” said the man. “Perhaps that’s why we get on.” Pembury raised his eyebrows. “It’s a tie, certainly,” he said. “Still, you and I hit it off before we thought about muck-rakes. I imagine it’s bigger than that—a question of taste. We’ve always had the same tastes. We’ve always loathed golf——” “Don’t mention the game,” wailed Elizabeth. “Hilton’s determined to teach me—says the great thing is to learn while you’re young.” “—an’ loved hunting. We both hate claret and love beer.”