“Oh, you marvellous Lotharios!” he cried. “To think that you, Anson—and you, too, Braithwaite—should have adventured along paths denied to myself.” Many wise heads were shaken at this improbable suggestion. “No, no, no, I assure you—innocent, my lords and gentlemen—hand on heart I say it” (much laughter and ironical cheers). “But I will turn over a new leaf. The spring is in the air—the call! Guide me with your wise lights to glades of Eros, for honestly”—he dropped into the commonplace—“if I ran away with a girl I shouldn’t know where to run. Tell me, some one.” “Depends on how secret you wish to be,” the some one replied. “Secret no—to hell with subterfuge!” cried Wynne, who had many drinks beneath his waistcoat. “Love is for the light, the sunshine, and the sea.” “Nothing for it but the Cosmopolis, Brighton.” “Right—every time. Marvellous Lotharios! Every time right. The Cosmopolis, Brighton. I shan’t forget—write it down, some one, ’case I do. Hullo, that you Quiltan?” Lane Quiltan, who had entered the room five minutes earlier, nodded. “Made an appointment, and you didn’t turn up.” “Yes.” “Lost a fine chance! Might have had an interest in something of mine.” “Might I?” “Had your chance—didn’t take it. Too late now!” “Is it?” said Quiltan. PART EIGHT THE LEAP I Clementine Rendall lay in bed and watched the sun-patterns of the string-coloured pile carpet. The birds on the lettuce-green trees of Kensington Square sang gaily of summer and their adventurous flights from the roof of John Barker’s to the happy hunting ground of Earl’s Court. It was a good day, he reflected, a day full of scent and harmony, and yet for some reason he felt oppressed. “Parsons,” he said, as his man entered with a small tea-tray. “Parsons, I have an impression that I am not going to enjoy myself.” “I hope that won’t be so, sir.” “So do I, Parsons; but I fear the worst. How old am I?” “Fifty-one and three months.” “That’s not very old—but it’s too old!” “For what, sir?” “I don’t know. But I should like always to be young enough to go courting when summer’s here. Dreadful thing when one loses the inclination to court, isn’t it?” “I couldn’t say, sir.” “Then you’re not fifty-one.” “That was not my meaning.” “Seems to me, if one can’t go courting oneself one should show the lanes to others. Know any one, Parsons, to whom I could show the lanes? I’d be an awful good guide.” “I rather fancy, sir, young folk find ’em pretty easy without help.” “You’re wrong there—they don’t—least some don’t; they stick to the barren moor and the wind-swept places. Not very good tea this morning, Parsons.” “I’m sorry, sir.” “’Twouldn’t have been good, anyhow. I’m in for a bad day. I can feel it in my bones.” Parsons laid out a tweed suit and a cheerful necktie, and placed a silk dressing-gown over the bedrail. “Ready for your bath, sir?” “Yes, turn it on.”