A hansom bore him down quickly to the Adelphi, where Mortimer lived in a snug set of chambers overlooking the river. Maddison found him stretched out on the sofa before the fire, reading a prettily-bound, daintily-illustrated, wittily-written volume of French essays on cookery. “Good man!” he exclaimed. “Come round to the fire. I’ve had a most lucky accident which will prevent me being able to go to the office this abominable weather and will get me out of several engagements I don’t want to keep.” “You know you love going out!” “No, I don’t. And as a matter of fact I don’t go out much. I used to, but I’m growing up. For one thing, people are so stupidly flippant; at best flippancy doesn’t sit well on English shoulders. You see I’m lucky: I’m an Englishman with foreign parents and a Jew for a grandfather. Do you mind ringing the bell?” The servant brought in the tea table, which he set down beside the sofa; a bright, copper kettle was put on one trivet and a dish of hot cakes on the other. “You old maid!” said Maddison, laughing, as he watched the trim preparations. “That’s a compliment. An old maid is usually delightful. She has the ripeness of years without the rottenness of experience. And she’s free to do what she likes.” “Because she hasn’t been able to do what every woman likes best; so she has to put up with the details of life.” “Are there any details in life?” Mortimer asked. “Yes; most important things are details.” “I suppose you would call tea-making a detail? Three and a half minutes exactly. I hope you always drink China tea, George!” “I never thought about it.” “An unhappy old age is before the man who does not consider the tea he drinks? No doubt you are Vandal enough to take sugar? Art and sensibility of palate seldom go together. By the way, West’s back from his honeymoon. I had a line from him this morning. What a beggar he is for writing! He gets through more work in a day than the average man does in a week, and still has time to be married and write letters. He wants me to go down for a week-end.” “What’s she like?” “You saw her at the wedding.” “Saw her. I know what she looks like—an empty-headed plaything. But you know her well, don’t you?” “No man ever knows a woman.” “Don’t be platitudinous.” “I can’t always be lying. She—I really don’t know. I used to think her a devilish little flirt; in fact she was; but women do change so after they’re married. Besides, I may have been quite wrong, quite. Everyone else thought her just a simple little maiden—who _knows_?” “And after all, it doesn’t really much matter. But it will take a clever woman to manage West. If she is just a doll he’ll soon grow tired of her—as he has of other dolls, whom he didn’t need to marry.” “That’s so. We shall see. I like West. He’s such a delightful contrast to myself. How have you been jogging along? Anything new? Is the picture getting itself upon canvas?”