"Again, am I in love with her? Can one fall in love so suddenly, outside the realm of fiction? Is there not a great truth in the popular ballad that treats of 'a tiny seed of love'? Surely love is a seed, planted by chance or design--for example, by a match-making mama? The seed needs opportunity for gradual growth--the sun of frequent intercourse--the rain of timely separation--the fertilizer of presents of flowers and bonbons--before it can grow to a splendid harvest.... This harvest of mine can not be love; it must be passion. If so, it must be crushed.... She is too perfect to sully even in thought." His brow grew gloomy, and he paced the room with feverish steps. "No!" he said presently, "I feel pretty sure it is not passion pure and simple--or impure and complex if you like. Critics may sneer, but I can not help thinking it may soon be love, if it is not that already. Wherefore, I had better fly to do her errands as soon as possible.... But I can not accept the ascetic ideal ... yet. Hypothetical Mizzis may cross my path, and if they do I feel sure I shall kiss them, but the moment I see a possible chance of winning _her_, why, then I shall be very good. "... 'Myes ... not very lofty ... but I want to be honest, and feel pretty sure that is what I shall do.... No doubt I shall not be happy, but...?" With a dissatisfied growl he began to undress, and soon he was in bed. To quiet his uneasy conscience before he fell asleep he muttered, "And of course I shall do anything she tells me." The unheroic but truthful pleasure-seeker then gave an unromantic snore. CHAPTER V THE PLOT THICKENS A knock on his door roused Lionel at half past eight, and he sprang up clear-eyed and joyous to meet the sun. The events of the previous day sped pleasantly through his brain; and now that the morning was upon him and the London sparrows twittering optimism, he could not dwell seriously on the indignation of his hostess. "Oh, it is bound to be all right!" he said to himself, stropping a razor that he found on the dressing-table and whistling a merry tune. The cold tub strung him to a higher mood, and as he plied the towel he broke into song. "_Horchen Sie doch!_" said Mizzi approvingly to the cat, as she prepared breakfast and heard the melodious strain: "_Er ist ein braver Kerl, der sich nicht erzuernt. Er ist ein lustiger Geist, wirklich. Die anderen habe ich zum Besten._" No doubt she was right.