Parsons retired and returned a few moments later with the announcement: “A gentleman has called to see you, sir. I told him you wasn’t up, but he asked permission to wait.” “Who is he?” “Mr. Lane Quiltan, sir.” “Quiltan, oh, yes—yes, wrote that play at the—. What’s he after?” “I don’t know, sir. Looked a bit worried, I thought.” “Oh! I don’t know the fellar. What’s he like? Think he’d care for me in my dressing-gown?” “I could ask, sir.” “Yes, ask, and tell him if he wants me in a suit he can’t have me at all.” Clementine Rendall swung his feet to the floor as the door closed and felt for his slippers. He pulled on the bandanna dressing-gown, lit a cigarette, and combed his hair. As he did so he sang cheerfully a song written to the occasion: “I don’t know the fellar, I don’t know the fellar, I don’t know the fellar, Or who the hell he is.” At the conclusion he became aware of the reflection of a stranger in the mirror. “Hullo! Mr. Quiltan,” he said. “Excuse my song—went with the comb strokes. Liked your play no end—top hole! Sit down, won’t you. What you come to see me for, eh?” Quiltan hesitated. “It’s difficult to answer,” he replied, “for really I don’t know.” “That’s the style. Just a friendly visit.” “Not altogether. I want to talk to some one—and I chose you. I’m in love.” “I envy you.” “You needn’t, for I’m as miserable as hell.” “It’s all a part of it.” “And I don’t know what to do.” “It’s all a part of it.” “Don’t you want to know with whom I’m in love?” “Does it concern me?” “In a way it does.” “Fire ahead.” “Wynne Rendall is your nephew, isn’t he? I’m in love with his wife.” Clementine shot a quick, fierce glance at his visitor. “Oh! Well, hadn’t you better get over it?” “I’m not sure that I want to. Not at all sure.” “Then I’m glad you came to see me. Why did you?” “Your name occurred last night. She said that you understood. Well, I want you to understand, that’s all; to understand that, if anything goes wrong, it’s her husband’s fault, not hers.” “And not yours?” The question was very direct. “No, by God, I believe not mine either. I want her to be happy—I think of nothing else.” “And isn’t she?” “You know the life she’s led!” “Well?” “Doesn’t that answer the question? He treats her as if she didn’t exist. I verily believe he isn’t even conscious of her.” “Is she in love with you?” Quiltan hesitated. “Not yet—but I think I could make her.” “Ha! Make her love you that you may make her happy, eh? Roundabout scheme, isn’t it?” “She shall be happy. I’m determined on that.” “You’re very sympathetic.” “I am.” Clem’s voice softened. “I believe you are,” he said. “Tell me—what’s the trouble there?” “He’s cheated her, and used her as a ladder to climb from her world. It’s a damnable enough story—d’you want to hear it?”