In a corner of the room Aynesworth had recognized a friend and fellow clubman, who was acting at a neighboring theater. He was dining with some young ladies of his company, and beckoned to Aynesworth to come over and join them. He pointed them out to Wingrave. “Would you care to be introduced?” he asked. “Holiwell is a very good fellow, and the girls might interest you. Two of them are Americans, and they are very popular.” Wingrave shook his head. “Thank you, no!” he said. “I should be glad to meet your friend some time when he is alone.” It was the first intimation which Aynesworth had received of his companion’s sentiments as regards the other sex. Years afterwards, when his attitude towards them was often quoted as being one of the extraordinary features of an extraordinary personality, he remembered his perseverance on this occasion. “You have not spoken to a woman for so many years,” he persisted. “Why not renew the experience? Nothing so humanizing, you know--not even cigarettes.” Wingrave’s face fell, if possible into sterner lines. His tone was cold and hard. “My scheme of life,” he said, “may be reconstructed more than once before I am satisfied. But I can assure you of this! There will be no serious place in it for women!” Aynesworth shrugged his shoulders. He never doubted but that in a month of two his vis-a-vis would talk differently. “Your scheme of life,” he repeated thoughtfully. “That sounds interesting! Have you any objection, I wonder, to telling me what manner of life you propose to lead?” It was several moments before Wingrave answered him. He was smoking a cigar in a mechanical sort of way, but he obviously derived no pleasure from it. Yet Aynesworth noticed that some instinct had led him to choose the finest brand. “Perhaps,” he said, letting his eyes rest coldly upon his questioner, “if I told you all that was in my mind you would waive your month’s salary and get back to your journalism!” Aynesworth shrugged his shoulders. “Why should you suppose that?” he asked. “I am not a moralist myself, nor am I the keeper of your conscience. I don’t think that you could frighten me off just yet.” “Nevertheless,” Wingrave admitted, “there are times when I fear that we shall not get on together. I begin to suspect that you have a conscience.” “You are the first,” Aynesworth assured him, “who has ever flattered me to that extent.” “It may be elastic, of course,” Wingrave continued, “but I suspect its existence. I warn you that association with me will try it hard.” “I accept the challenge,” Aynesworth answered lightly. “You are rasher than you imagine,” Wingrave declared. “For instance, I have admitted to you, have I not, that I am interested in my fellow creatures, that I want to mix with them and watch them at their daily lives. Let me assure you that that interest is not a benevolent one.” “I never fancied that you were a budding philanthropist,” Aynesworth remarked, lighting a fresh cigarette.