For the rest of the drive to Brighton their laughter never stopped. Nothing draws a man and a woman together as laughter does--when it is intimate to themselves, a mutual language not to be understood of others. They became extraordinary friends, as if they had known each other from childhood, and the sunset fires in all their glory passed unheeded. Although he could hear nothing of what they said, there was a sympathetic grin upon the chauffeur's face at the ringing mirth behind him. "It's your turn to suppose now, Mr. Lothian." "Well--wait a minute--oh, let's suppose that Mr. Podley once wrote a moral poem--you to play!" Rita thought for a minute or two, her lips rippling with merriment, her young eyes shining. A little chuckle escaped her, her shoulders began to shake and then she shrieked with joy. "I've got it, splendid! Listen! It's to inculcate kindness to animals. "I am only a whelk, Sir, Though if you but knew, Although I'm a whelk, Sir, The Lord made me too!" "Magnificent!--your turn." "Well, what will the title of the Toftrees' next novel be?" "'Cats' meat!'--I say, do you know that I have invented the one _quite_ perfect opening for a short story. You'll realise when you hear it that it stands alone. It's perfect, like Giotto's Campanile or 'The Hound of Heaven.'" "Tell me quickly!" "Mr. Florimond awoke from a deep sleep. There was nobody there but the Dog Trust." "You are wonderful. I see it, of course. It's style itself! And how would you end the story? Have you studied the end yet?" "Yes. I worked at it all the time I was in Italy last year. You shall hear that too. Mr. Florimond sank into a deep sleep. There was nobody there but the Dog Trust." . . . He told her of his younger days in London when he shared a flat with a brother journalist named Passhe. "We lived the most delightful freakish lives you can imagine," he said. "When we came into breakfast from our respective bedrooms we had a ritual which never varied. We neither looked at each other nor spoke, but sat down opposite at the table. We each had our newspaper put in our place by the man who looked after us. We opened the papers and pretended to read for a moment. Then Basil looked over the top of his at me, very gravely. 'We live in stirring times, Mr. Lothian!' he would say, and I used to answer, 'Indeed, Mr. Passhe, we do!' Then we became as usual." "How perfectly sweet! I must do that with Ethel--that's the girl I live with, you know--only we don't have the papers. It runs up so!" she concluded, with a wise little air that sent a momentary throb of pain through a man who had never understood (even in his poorest days) what money meant; and probably never would understand. Poor, dear little girl! Why couldn't he give her-- "We're here, Mr. Lothian! Look at the lights! Brighton at last!"