‘By the way, talking of engagements,’ says Crosby, between the soup and fish, ‘I have one for to-night, at your aunt’s—Mrs. Prior’s. In some odd fashion she heard I was in Dublin, and sent a card to the Gresham for me. You’—glancing at Wyndham’s evening dress—‘are going somewhere, too, perhaps?’ ‘There, too,’ says Wyndham. ‘I’ve got out of it a good deal lately; but it doesn’t do to offend her overmuch. She’s touchy. And the old man, my uncle, Lord Shangarry—you remember him, how he used to tip us at school long ago?—makes quite a point of my being civil to her.’ ‘To her, or——’ ‘My cousin?’ Wyndham lifts his brows. ‘I feel sure my cousin is as indifferent to me as I am to her.’ He pauses. ‘Still, I will not conceal from you that my uncle desires a marriage between us.’ ‘Is this the cause of your late depression?’ asks Crosby, with a quizzical expression. ‘Not it,’ says Wyndham. ‘By-the-by’—a little hurriedly—‘what of that late adventure of yours in Siam? You were just telling me about it when——’ Crosby at once plunges into the interrupted anecdote, bringing it, however, to a somewhat sharp close. ‘You know what life is!’ says Wyndham a little moodily when it is over. ‘I envy you; I often think I too should like to break off the threads of society that bind one in, and start on a career that would leave civilization and—its worries behind.’ ‘Its worries?’ ‘Well, gossip for one thing, and that delicate espionage that so often leads to the damning of a man.’ ‘Poor old boy! Got into deep water,’ thinks Crosby whilst toying with his champagne. ‘Once in it, one never gets out of civilization,’ says he. ‘It sticks to one like a burr. Don’t hope for that when you start on the wild career you speak of. For myself, I like civilization. It’s clean, for one thing—savages don’t do much in the way of washing. But I confess I like wandering for wandering’s sake. It’s a mania with me. Here to-day and gone to-morrow—that’s the motto that suits me. Yet, I dare say, in time I shall get tired of it.’ ‘Not you. Where are you going next?’ ‘Not made up my mind yet. But I’ll tell you where I’ve been last—right into Arcadia! A difficult place to find nowadays, the savants tell you; but the savants, like the Cretans, are all liars. And in my Arcadia I fell in with an adventure, and met——’ He pauses, and, leaning back in his chair, clasps his hands behind his head and gives way to silent laughter. Evidently some memory is amusing him. ‘Someone who apparently was kind to you,’ says Wyndham indifferently, breaking off from the stem, but not eating, the purple grapes before him. ‘Kind!’ says Crosby. ‘Hardly that.’ ‘Unkind?’ ‘More than that.’ ‘She told you——’ ‘That I was a thief.’ Wyndham’s indifference ceases for a moment. ‘Strong language,’ says he.