“Not like me, you were going to say. Frankly, it was not, but then I realized that he was an unusual kind of man. I invited him to dine with me before he left London, and in reply received a wire from Southampton intimating that he was already on his way.” Lexman nodded. “It must be an awfully interesting kind of life,” he said. “I suppose he will be away for quite a long time?” “Three years,” said Kara, continuing his examination of the bookshelf. “I envy those fellows who run round the world writing books,” said John, puffing reflectively at his pipe. “They have all the best of it.” Kara turned. He stood immediately behind the author and the other could not see his face. There was, however, in his voice an unusual earnestness and an unusual quiet vehemence. “What have you to complain about!” he asked, with that little drawl of his. “You have your own creative work--the most fascinating branch of labour that comes to a man. He, poor beggar, is bound to actualities. You have the full range of all the worlds which your imagination gives to you. You can create men and destroy them, call into existence fascinating problems, mystify and baffle ten or twenty thousand people, and then, at a word, elucidate your mystery.” John laughed. “There is something in that,” he said. “As for the rest of your life,” Kara went on in a lower voice, “I think you have that which makes life worth living--an incomparable wife.” Lexman swung round in his chair, and met the other's gaze, and there was something in the set of the other's handsome face which took his breath away. “I do not see--” he began. Kara smiled. “That was an impertinence, wasn't it!” he said, banteringly. “But then you mustn't forget, my dear man, that I was very anxious to marry your wife. I don't suppose it is secret. And when I lost her, I had ideas about you which are not pleasant to recall.” He had recovered his self-possession and had continued his aimless stroll about the room. “You must remember I am a Greek, and the modern Greek is no philosopher. You must remember, too, that I am a petted child of fortune, and have had everything I wanted since I was a baby.” “You are a fortunate devil,” said the other, turning back to his desk, and taking up his pen. For a moment Kara did not speak, then he made as though he would say something, checked himself, and laughed. “I wonder if I am,” he said. And now he spoke with a sudden energy. “What is this trouble you are having with Vassalaro?” John rose from his chair and walked over to the fire, stood gazing down into its depths, his legs wide apart, his hands clasped behind him, and Kara took his attitude to supply an answer to the question. “I warned you against Vassalaro,” he said, stooping by the other's side to light his cigar with a spill of paper. “My dear Lexman, my fellow countrymen are unpleasant people to deal with in certain moods.” “He was so obliging at first,” said Lexman, half to himself.