The author of _The Purple Fan_ had been from the first a leading figure in Jane’s _salon_. Most of those who attended these functions were friends of his, introduced by him, and he had assumed almost from the beginning the demeanour of a master of the revel. William, squashed into his corner, had long gazed at the man with sullen dislike, yearning to gather him up by the slack of his trousers and heave him into outer darkness; but it is improbable that he would have overcome his native amiability sufficiently to make any active move, had it not been for the black mood caused by his rotten golf. But one evening, when, coming home after doing the Mossy Heath course in five strokes over the hundred, he found the studio congested with Rodney Spelvin and his friends, many of them playing ukeleles, he decided that flesh and blood could bear the strain no longer. As soon as the last guest had gone he delivered his ultimatum. “Listen, Jane,” he said. “Touching on this Spelvin bloke.” “Well?” said Jane, coldly. She scented battle from afar. “He gives me a pain in the neck.” “Really?” said Jane, and laughed a silvery laugh. “Don’t do it, old girl,” pleaded William, wincing. “I wish you wouldn’t call me ‘old girl’.” “Why not?” “Because I don’t like it.” “You used to like it.” “Well, I don’t now.” “Oh!” said William, and ruminated awhile. “Well, be that as it may,” he went on, “I want to tell you just one thing. Either you throw the bloke Spelvin out on his left ear and send for the police if he tries to get in again, or I push off. I mean it! I absolutely push off.” There was a tense silence. “Indeed?” said Jane at last. “Positively push off,” repeated William, firmly. “I can stand a lot, but pie-faced Spelvin tries human endurance too high.” “He is not pie-faced,” said Jane, warmly. “He _is_ pie-faced,” insisted William. “Come round to the Vienna Bon-Ton Bakery to-morrow and I will show you an individual custard-pie that might be his brother.” “Well, I am certainly not going to be bullied into giving up an old friend just because--” William stared. “You mean you won’t hand him the mitten?” “I will not.” “Think what you are saying, Jane. You positively decline to give this false-alarm the quick exit?” “I do.” “Then,” said William, “all is over. I pop off.” Jane stalked without a word into her bedroom. With a mist before his eyes William began to pack. After a few moments he tapped at her door. “Jane.” “Well?” “I’m packing.” “Indeed?” “But I can’t find my spare mashie.” “I don’t care.” William returned to his packing. When it was finished, he stole to her door again. Already a faint stab of remorse was becoming blended with his just indignation. “Jane.” “Well?” “I’ve packed.” “Really?” “And now I’m popping.” There was silence behind the door. “I’m popping, Jane,” said William. And in his voice, though he tried to make it cold and crisp, there was a note of wistfulness.