When the merriment was at its height, Gaveston rose abruptly and recited in poignant _tremolo_ tones two litanies of his own composition, both of haunting beauty and addressed to Satanas Athanatos and the Blessed Curé d’Ars respectively. The severed heads of vermilion poppies were thrown lavishly over the recumbent guests, who, chewing them appreciatively, were soon transformed into new De Quincies. And suddenly, from a curtained recess, stole out the sombre, blood-curdling strains of Sibelius’ Vale Triste and Rachmaninov’s Prelude. The eerie witchcraft of the concealed gramophone, exacerbating their nerves, made repose intolerable, and soon half the party was afoot, swinging in frantic rhythms between the voluptuous divans in the mad inebriation of the dance. “_Après nous le déluge!_” cried the host, in a tone that seemed to defy both Paradise and Limbo, and ecstasy followed ecstasy in orgiastic sequence. At last the party dispersed, half fearful perhaps lest some anti-climax should end the lengthening afternoon. In merry groups the guests went their ways, to meditative teas in Keble or in Magdalen. Gaveston was left alone. With a wry smile he looked round the dishevelled room. Yes, it was over. A phase had been accomplished. It had all been marvellous beyond words, rich beyond dreams, but still … but still.… Something had always seemed missing from all the mysticism and all the revelry.… Oh, if only David had been there to share it all! The room was growing darker now. One by one the nightlights were guttering wearily out in the _crême de menthe_ and the _advokaat_, and St. Symphorosa herself could hardly be distinguished from Astarte. The scent of bergamot was grown a little musty, and the divans were sprinkled with spilt cocaine and melting caramels. “Now it must end,” he said firmly. Brusquely he pulled aside the heavy curtains and flung open the long-rusted windows. For a moment he gazed out across the quadrangle to where a fretted pinnacle was balancing a stripling moon. Then he turned to his door. “Perkins!” he cried down to the scout’s pantry. “Perkins! Come up and pack my things at once. I go down to-night.” It was a day early. But nothing could surprise Perkins now. CHAPTER VIII HALLALI So passed the rich pageantry of Gaveston’s second term, and once again he was speeding through the sun-washed river-meadows towards the vast smoky antre of Paddington. While the train curved grandly through beautiful Maidenhead, he took out his pocket-book, a slim wallet of polished eftskin which the Contadina da Chiesa had given him, with her coronet set in sapphires in one corner, as an Eastertide gift. He unfolded a letter on thick mauve notepaper. _Villa des Grues, Route des Rastaquouères, Monico._ _Valentine’s Day._