"How punctual you are," he said. "Sit here, won't you?--I hadn't finished laying the table." He deliberately brought out four more cups. "What unnatural penetration you have, Temple! How did you find out that this is the day when I sit 'at home' and wait for people to come and buy my pictures?" "And no one's come?" Lady St. Craye had sunk into the chair and was pulling off her gloves. "That's very disappointing. I thought I should meet dozens of clever and interesting people, and I only meet two." Her brilliant smile made the words seem neither banal nor impertinent. Vernon was pleased to note that he was not the only one who was disappointed. "You are too kind," he said gravely. Temple was looking around the room. "Jolly place you've got here," he said, "but it's hard to find. I should have gone off in despair if I hadn't met Lady St. Craye." "We kept each other's courage up, didn't we, Mr. Temple? It was like arctic explorers. I was beginning to think we should have to make a camp and cook my muff for tea." She held out the sable and Vernon laid it on the couch when he had held it to his face for a moment. "I love the touch of fur," he said; "and your fur is scented with the scent of summer gardens, 'open jasmine muffled lattices,'" he quoted softly. Temple had wandered to the window. "What ripping roofs!" he said. "Can one get out on them?" "Now what," demanded Vernon, "_is_ the hidden mainspring that impels every man who comes into these rooms to ask, instantly, whether one can get out on to the roof? It's only Englishmen, by the way; Americans never ask it, nor Frenchmen." "It's the exploring spirit, I suppose," said Temple idly; "the spirit that has made England the Empire which--et cetera." "On which the sun never sets. Yes--but I think the sunset would be one of the attractions of your roof, Mr. Vernon." "Sunset is never attractive to me," said he, "nor Autumn. Give me sunrise, and Spring." "Ah, yes," said Lady St. Craye, "you only like beginnings. Even Summer--" "Even Summer, as you say," he answered equably. "The sketch is always so much better than the picture." "I believe that is your philosophy of life," said Temple. "This man," Vernon explained, "spends his days in doing ripping etchings and black and white stuff and looking for my philosophy of life." "One would like to see that in black and white. Will you etch it for me, Mr. Temple, when you find it?" "I don't think the medium would be adequate," Temple said. "I haven't found it yet, but I should fancy it would be rather highly coloured." "Iridescent, perhaps. Did you ever speculate as to the colour of people's souls? I'm quite sure every soul has a colour." "What is yours?" asked Vernon of course. "I'm too humble to tell you. But some souls are thick--body-colour, don't you know--and some are clear like jewels." "And mine's an opal, is it?" "With more green in it, perhaps; you know the lovely colour on the dykes in the marshes?"