"Now, why interfere?" said Conrad peevishly. "This is my department. You have bungled hopelessly yourself. By your own showing you distrusted the man--and you let him escape, instead of patrolling his doorstep like a bright young woman. Then when _I_ bring intelligence to bear on the matter, and we're all happy, you must cut in and throw cold water on the scheme. Take your soup and be good." "Isn't it nice?" said Tattie. "Now that's a sensible remark. I turn to _you_--we won't be interfered with. Suppose you help me, Miss Lascelles? Will you be Santa Claus in Corporation Road for me?" "Oh," she faltered. "You had better go yourself." "I?" gasped Conrad; "I wouldn't do it for a million--they'd thank me, some people have got no tact." "They'd cry over you," she said, with tears in her own voice. "You don't know what it is you're doing. They aren't used to men who-- You're a trump!" "Oh, pickles," he said. "Where's that waiter? I say, we're all being awfully solemn; I thought this was going to be a jolly party? Miss Daintree----" "Mr. Warrener?" "Please talk." "I'm going to talk later on," she said. "I'm going to talk like a mother to you." "Won't you talk like yourself in the meanwhile? I don't want anything better." Then she talked like herself; and the plates were changed, and the hour was pleasurable. It was a very uncommon hour, because her friend was so nice. The pretty girl's friend is nearly always an infliction, and makes mischief afterwards because she hasn't been sufficiently admired. It was such a pleasurable hour that Conrad knew a pang of regret in reflecting that there would be few more like it--Rosalind, no doubt, would flee from Blithepoint as soon as the other women. Would he meet her again? Of course she would drift into another Company; meet another man in another town. Damn! "I'm going to miss that girl," he mused, "and know she's flirting with somebody else while I'm remembering her!" "'The world,'" he exclaimed, indulging his weakness for quotation, "'is a comedy to those that think, a tragedy to those who feel!'" And neither Rosalind nor Tattie found it needful to inquire to which category he was assigning himself; there may be sentimental seconds even over a chateaubriand. He added, "Let me fill up that glass for you--you've nothing there but froth." It was more than half-past three when the waiter abased himself in letting them out, and as they turned along the Parade, Tattie recollected that she had "promised to be with Miss Vavasour at four." They all stopped for a minute, and Conrad tried to look as if he didn't want her to go. However she went, and he and Rosalind sauntered on without her. "What shall we do?" he said. "Shall we go and hear the band?" "There isn't one in the afternoon this time of year."