"Well," he exclaimed, "I feel better to-day than for long enough. I've been going through a devilish bad time, I can tell you. To make things worse, some one has fixed an infernal accusation on me--an abominable calumny. I won't talk about it now, but it may be necessary some day." "Calumny?--nothing that could be made use against you in public?" "No danger of that, I think. I didn't mean to speak of it." "You know that a man on the hustings must look out for mud?" "Of course, of course!--How do you spend your afternoons? What shall we do?" William threw away the end of a cigar, and stretched himself. "I do very little but read," he answered. "A man gets the reading habit, just like the morphia habit, or anything else of that kind. I think my average is six novels a week: French, Russian, German, Italian. No English, unless I'm in need of an emetic. What else should I do? It's a way of watching contemporary life.--Would you like to go and talk with Ivy? Oh, I forgot that girl." "You wouldn't care to ask some people to dinner one of these days--the right kind of people?" "Yes, yes; we'll do that. I must warn you not to talk much about art, and above all not to play the piano. It would make a bad impression." "All right. How shall I deal with Liversedge? I go there this evening, you remember." "Sound him, if opportunity offers. No hurry, you know. We have probably several months before us. You'll have to live here a good deal." As the rain had ceased, they presently went out into the garden and strolled aimlessly about. CHAPTER VII