Belfield smiled. "Oh yes. He's got a plan for wintering in Algeria; they'll go as soon as she's well enough, stopping in Paris _en route_. Yes, he's really full of plans--for enjoying himself and meeting friends he likes. There's a Lady Lucy Somebody who's got the finest motor-car on earth. She's going to be in Paris. Oh, well, there it is! Plans of any other sort are dropped. He's dropped them; she's had to drop them--after a good deal of fighting, so she told me. He makes no definite refusals; he puts her off, laughs it off, shunts it, you know, and goes on his own way. One didn't understand how strong that had grown in him--the dislike of any responsibilities or limits. Being answerable to anybody seems to vex him. I think he even resents our great expectations, though we go out of our way to let him see that we've honestly abandoned them! A pleasant drifting over summer seas, with agreeable company, and plenty of variety in it! That's the programme. We shall probably be wise to add a few storms and a good many minor squalls to get a true idea of it." "It doesn't seem to lead to much." "Oh, the mistake's ours! For many men I say nothing against the life. I'm not one of the preachers, and there's something to be said for it for some people. We made our own idol, Andy; it's our fault. We saw the capacities, we didn't appreciate the weakness. I can't be hard on poor old Harry, can you? We parted capital friends, I'm glad to say--though he was distinctly in a hurry to keep an appointment at a tea-shop. Somebody passing through London, he said--and through his fancy too, I imagine." He looked across at Andy. "I suppose it all seems uncommon queer to you, Andy?" "It's a bit of a waste, isn't it?" "So we think, we at Meriton. That's our old idea, and we shan't get over it. Yes, a bit of a waste! But it's nature's way, I suppose. A fine fabric with one unsound patch! It does seem a waste, but she's lavish; and the fabric may be very pleasing to the eye all the same, and serve all right--so long as you don't strain it!" In the garden Mrs. Belfield discoursed placidly to Miss Doris Flower; it was perhaps fortunate that the veil of night rendered that young lady's face hard to read.