He lunched at his club, at a solitary table, not feeling equal to jaunty companionship. Then home to Ealing where, feeling ill and jaded, he went to bed. There, in spite of his wife’s protests, did he remain. Martha did not believe in people staying in bed unless they came out in spots or betrayed _malaise_ by other unmistakable physical symptoms. It upset the routine of the house. Still, he was the master. She would give the necessary orders. For dinner he had a sole which Martha called fried, but which he, with elementary humour, called dried; whereupon she went off, taking leave of him with acerb courtesy. Later, servants came to make his bed and see to the comfort of his night. He rose, put on his dressing-gown, and felt very much the better for his rest. He bade the butler set out his golfing things in readiness for the morrow--Sunday. He went into his study next door. Being at a loose end, for to-night no work was possible, he bethought him of Tuesday’s early start for Boulogne. Better get everything in readiness now, there being no principles in life more imperative than foresight and method. So, idly, he got together, from the mentally docketed and locked drawers in which they lay, his bundle of ten-pound notes, his store of French money left over from last year’s golfing holiday, his yellow Cook’s tickets procured a few days ago with their reservations of Pullman and Private Cabin, his letter from the Le Touquet hotel confirming his order for rooms, a little wad of visiting cards, a prescription for tonic and another for indigestion pills and a very dirty card setting forth, in tabulated form, the mathematical rules for the banker’s draw at Chemin de Fer. Having passed the lot in review he stuffed them into his special leather holiday wallet, which, entering his now prepared bedroom, he laid upon the dressing-table, intending to lock it up in the drawer. Now, did he, or didn’t he? He couldn’t remember. At any rate, what was certain was that, when he re-entered his study to turn out the light preparatory to going to bed, he heard the infernal young man in the garden playing his fantastically diabolical tune. Again he went forth--this time in pyjamas and dressing-gown--and again he stood entranced till the musician ended and came forward smiling, with outstretched hat. ‘Go on, go on,’ cried Paradyne. ‘Alas, I have but one piece,’ said the young man, ‘and I only play it once.’ Paradyne flapped his hands against empty night pockets. ‘I’m sorry----’ he began. ‘Don’t mention it.’ ‘I must go into the house, and----’ ‘I pray you, don’t.’ ‘Will you come to-morrow night?’ The young man cocked his head at a humorous angle and smiled, holding up a protesting hand. ‘I only came to-night because you seemed to appreciate my music. But to-morrow----? Do you think I’m going to spend my life in Ealing?’ The very words of his daughter, Viola. He put his hands up to his temples as though to steady an odd rocking. He said: