“I don’t suppose he’ll ask me alone.” “Oh, I shouldn’t wonder.” “I don’t think he cares much about me,” Deeming continued abruptly. “Do you?” “My dear fellow, he hardly knows you,” I exclaimed. “You haven’t been quarrelling over the animal world this afternoon, have you?” And I laughed, but without much cordiality, I fear. “Did he say we had?” “Good heavens, no! But you differ on the dog question, and so⸺” Deeming frowned. “The dog question!” he said. “Why on earth should you call it that?” “Well, I mean that he’s very sensitive since he lost his dog, and that perhaps makes him a little unreasonable at times, though I must say that till the other night when he dined here I never heard him mention the subject of animals and their relation with man. And, by the way, you’ve been equally silent. Till the other night I never knew you possessed a dog.” “Is it such an important matter that I should go about proclaiming it?” His tone was suddenly hard and impatient. “No, of course not.” “I hate people who bother their friends about their pets. It’s almost as bad as the women who are always talking about the marvellous beauty and genius of their squalling babies.” He set his lips together as if he never meant to open them again, and I saw a look as of acute nervous irritation in his eyes. It warned me not to persevere in the conversation, and made me vexed with myself for having given way to Vernon’s desire. “Let’s have a nightcap,” I said. “What do you think of doing to-morrow? What do you say to getting a carriage and driving over to lunch at Tivoli?” He looked more easy. “If it is fine I should enjoy it immensely,” he said in a calmer voice. And we talked of old gardens and the beauty of rushing water. We spent the following day together at Tivoli. When we came back towards evening, the hall-porter handed to Deeming a note. It was from Vernon, inviting him to dine two days later. “You see how he hates you!” I said chaffingly when he told me. “Do you mean to go?” “Oh, yes. Why not?” He spoke lightly, holding the note open in his hand. He did not go, however, and for this reason. On the morning of the day he was to dine with Vernon, he left Rome for England. An urgent summons from a patient, he told me, made it necessary for him to go to London without a moment’s delay. I remonstrated with him, but in vain. “I’ve had quite enough rest,” he said. “I’m all right. And this is an important matter. It means a very large sum of money.” “Health’s more than money.” “Certainly, but I feel quite my own man again.” He did not look it, but I said no more. I knew that argument would be useless. He sent a note to Vernon, and, when I bade him good-bye, begged me to express his regret at being obliged to cancel the dinner. “But I hope some day he’ll come to dine with me in London. Do tell him so,” he said, as he stepped into the omnibus to go to the station. “I should like to meet him again.”