“Ah, but then you're so young,” he always expected his companions to say; and the thing that pleased him most of all was to hear some one declare--“Tony Gale's such a puzzle--sometimes he seems only eighteen and then suddenly he's fifty.” It was rumoured that he had once been in love with Alice Galleon when she had been Alice du Cane--and that they had nearly made a match of it; but he was certainly now married to a charming girl whom he had seen in Cornwall and the two young things were considered delightful by the whole of Chelsea. Tony Gale had with him a man called James Maradick whom Peter had met before and liked. Maradick was forty-two or three, large, rather heavy in build and expression and very taciturn. He was in business in the city, but had been drawn, Peter knew not how, into the literary world of London. He was often to be found at dinner parties and evening “squashes” silent, observant and generally alone. Many people thought him dull, but Peter liked him partly because of his reserve and partly because of his enthusiasm for Cornwall. Cornwall seemed to be the only subject that could stir Maradick into excitement, and when Cornwall was under discussion the whole man woke into sudden stir and emotion. To-night, with his almost cynical observance of the emotions and excitement that surged about him, he seemed to Peter the one man possible in the whole gathering. “Look here, Maradick, let's get somewhere out of this crush and have a cigarette.” People were all pouring into supper now and Peter saw his wife in the distance, on Bobby Galleon's arm. They found a little conservatory deserted now and strangely quiet after the din of the other rooms: here they sat down. Maradick was capable of sitting, quite happily for hours, without saying anything at all. For some time they were both silent. At last Peter said: “By jove, Maradick, yours is a fortunate sort of life--just going into the city every day, coming back to your wife in the evening--no stupid troubles that come from imagining things that aren't there--” “How do you know I don't?” answered Maradick quietly. “Imagination hasn't anything to do with one's profession. I expect there's as much imagination amongst the Stock Exchange men as there is with you literary people--only it's expressed differently.” “What do you do,” said Peter, “if it ever gets too much for you?” “Do? How do you mean?” “Well suppose you're feeling all the time that one little thing more, one little word or some one coming in or a window breaking--anything will upset the equilibrium of everything? Supposing you're out with all your might to keep things sane and to prevent your life from swinging back into all the storm and uncertainty that it was in once before, and supposing you feel that there are a whole lot of things trying to get you to swing back, what's the best thing to do?” “Why, hold on, hold on--” “How do you mean?”