“Going mad,” said Mr. Stewart, “is an effort of will. I could go mad in a minute if I wished, and the Babe certainly determined to go mad when he was yet a boy. No offence meant, Babe. I can confidently state that during the three years I have known him, he has never for a moment seemed to be really sane.” “I was perfectly sane when I settled to go in for the tripos,” said the Babe. “You never settled to do anything of the kind. You think you did and it is one of your wildest delusions.” “Secondly I was sane,” said the Babe, “when I--” “No you weren’t,” put in Reggie. “Reggie, don’t be like Longridge. But you are quite right. I wasn’t sane then, though I thought I was for the moment.” “Longridge is better, though he still has a large piece of sticking plaster over his nose,” said Mr. Stewart. “He came to see me to-day. He insisted on arguing with me in spite of my expostulations. When he talks, I always want to cover him up, as one covers up a chirping canary.” “I wish you would do it some day. With a piece of green baize you know, and a hole in it where the handle of the cage comes out.” “He would continue to make confused noises within,” said Reggie. “He always makes confused noises,” said Mr. Stewart wearily. “Confused, ingenious, noises. Babe, tell me if that champagne is drinkable.” The Babe drank off his glass. “Obviously,” he said. “But it’s no use asking me: all champagne seems to me delicious. I drink Miller’s cheapest for choice.” A small withered don who was sitting next the Babe, and had not previously spoken, here looked up. “A nice, dry, light wine,” he said. The Babe started violently, and if he had not just emptied his glass of champagne, he would certainly have spilled it. He explained afterwards that he really had forgotten that anyone was occupying the chair on the right. This curious old gentlemen, one of the few surviving specimens of this particular type of elderly don had the classical name of Moffat, and Mr. Stewart at once introduced him to the Babe, a ceremony which had escaped his memory before, and Mr. Moffat who had been shivering on the brink of conversation all dinner, decided to plunge in. “I saw your performance of the _Agamemnon_ last week,” he said. “I hope you enjoyed it,” said the Babe politely. “The stage is not what it was in me young days,” said Mr. Moffat. The Babe looked interested and waited for further criticisms, but the old gentleman returned to his dinner without offering any. His face looked as if it was made of cast iron, painted with Aspinall’s buff-coloured enamel.