"Don't worry, Searle. What _does_ it matter?" She flew downstairs. Nigel looked up with that intense surprise that no one can succeed in disguising as the acutest pleasure. "Well, by Jove," he said, in his quick way, which was so cool and casual that it almost had the effect of a drawl. He looked at her closely, and said reassuringly: "After all, it may not be true; and if it is, it may be for the best." "What may not be true, Nigel. What do you mean?" "Why, this sudden bad news." "What news? There is no news." "Isn't there? By Jove, this is splendid! Just come down to have breakfast with me, then! Capital. What will you have, dear?" He rang the bell. "Are you sorry to see me?" she asked, darting looks at the envelopes by his plate, looks that were almost sharp enough to open them. "Sorry to see you? Don't be absurd! Your comb's falling into the sugar basin, and I shouldn't think it would improve the taste of the coffee. Look out! Help! Saved! Mary dear, why don't you do your hair?" "I was afraid you might go out before I came down." "Why, I'm not going out for ages, yet." He gave her his letters in their envelopes, with a half-smile. "I don't want to see them," she said. "Why do you pass me the letters, as though you thought I came down for that?" Nigel pretended not to hear. He opened the newspaper. "I thought," she went on, "it seemed rather a shame that I should always have breakfast upstairs, and leave you alone, without anyone to keep you company." "Awfully kind of you, but, really, I don't mind a bit." He gave a quick look round the room. He had again that curious, bitter sensation of being trapped. Was he now not even going to have this pleasant morning hour to himself? Probably there was not a prettier room in London than this one. It had the pale pink and green, blue and mauve colouring of spring flowers; the curved shapes of the dainty artificial creatures who lived for fine and trivial pleasure only; the best Louis Quinze decoration. And to-day it was a lovely day; and the warm west wind blew in the breath of the pink and blue hyacinths in the window-boxes. There was that pleasant gay buzzing sound of London in June outside in Grosvenor Street: the growing hum of the season, that made one feel right in it, even if one wasn't. Everything was peacefully happy, harsh and hard things seemed unreal; the world seemed made for birds and butterflies, light sentiment, colour, perfume and gay music. In this London life seemed like a Watteau picture. Nigel saw that he had never yet realised why he was so fond of this room, where he always had breakfast. It was because there he was free, and alone. * * * * *