“You alarm yourself without occasion, George. This pestilence is born of uncleanliness and confines itself to the unclean. Look into the cases that are reported. The outbreaks are all in mean houses in mean streets. The plague practises a nice discrimination, and does not venture to intrude upon persons of quality.” “Nevertheless, I take my precautions,” said Mr. Etheredge, producing a handkerchief from which a strong perfume of camphor and vinegar diffused itself through the room. “And I am one of those who believe that flight is the best physic. Besides, what is there to do here? The Court is gone; the Town is hot and reeking as an anteroom of hell. In Heaven’s name let us seek a breath of clean, cool, country air.” “Pish! Ye’re bucolic. Like Dryden ye’ve a pastoral mind. Well, well, be off to your sheep. We shall not miss you here.” Mr. Etheredge sat down and studied his friend, pursing his lips. “And all this for a prude who has no notion of being kind! Let me perish, Bucks, but I don’t know you!” The Duke fetched a sigh. “Sometimes I think I don’t know myself. Gad, George, I believe I am going mad!” He strode away to the window. “Comfort yourself with the reflection that you won’t have far to go,” said the unsympathetic Mr. Etheredge. “How a man of your years and experience can take the risks and the trouble over a pursuit that....” The Duke swung round to interrupt him sharply. “Pursuit! That is the cursed word. A pursuit that maddens because it never overtakes.” “Not a bad line, that--for you,” said Mr. Etheredge. “But in love, remember, ‘they fly that wound, and they pursue that die.’” But Buckingham raved on without heeding the gibe, his voice suddenly thick with passion. “I have the hunter’s instinct, I suppose. The prey that eludes me is the prey that at all costs must be reduced into possession. Can’t you understand?” “No, thank God! I happen to retain my sanity. Come into the country, man, and recover yours. It’s waiting for you there amid the buttercups.” “Pshaw!” Buckingham turned from him again with an ill-humoured shrug. “Is that your answer?” “It is. Don’t let me detain you.” Etheredge got up, and went to set a hand upon his arm. “If you stay, and at such a time, you must have some definite purpose in your mind. What is it?” “What was in my mind before you came to trouble it, George. To end the matter where I should have begun it.” And he adapted three lines of Suckling’s: “If of herself she will not love, Myself shall make her, The devil take her!” Etheredge shrugged in despair and disgust. “Ye’re not only mad, Bucks,” said he. “Ye’re coarse. I warned you once of the dangers of this thing. I’ve no mind to repeat myself. But you’ll give me leave to marvel that you can take satisfaction in....”