"Poor old Addie!" he said. He leaned down and stroked her shoulder. "I wish you could get hold of somebody or something that'd make you happy," he remarked. "I'm sure you deserve it." His wife dried her tears and sniffed two or three times almost with the frankness of a grief-stricken child. "I never shall!" "Why not, Addie?" "There's something in me--I don't know! I should get tired of anyone who didn't get tired of me!" She almost began to cry again, and added despairingly: "So what hope is there? And I _do_ so want to enjoy myself! I wonder if there ever has been a woman who wanted to enjoy herself as much as I do?" Mr. Shiffney blew forth a cloud of smoke, extending the little finger of the hand which held his cigar. "We all want to have a good time," he observed. "A first-rate time. What else are we here for?" He spoke seriously. "We are here to keep things going, I s'pose--to keep it up, don't you know? We mustn't let it run down. But if we don't enjoy ourselves down it goes. And that doesn't do, does it?" He flicked the ash from his cigar. "What's the special row this time?" he continued, without any heated curiosity, but with distinct sympathy. Mrs. Shiffney looked slightly more cheerful. She enjoyed telling things if the things were closely connected with herself. "Well, I want to start for a cruise," she began. "I can't remain for ever glued to Grosvenor Square. I must move about and see something." She had just been for a month in Paris. "Of course. What are we here for?" observed her husband. "You always understand! Sit down, you old thing!" Mr. Shiffney sat down, gently pulling up his trousers. "And the row is," she continued, shaking her shoulders, "that I want Claude Heath to come and he won't. And, since he won't, he's really the only living man I want to have on the cruise." "Who is he?" observed Mr. Shiffney. "I've never heard of him. Is he one of your special pals?" "Not yet. I met him at Max's. He's a composer, and I want to know what he's like." "I expect he's like all the rest." "No, he isn't!" she observed decisively. "Why won't he come? Perhaps he's a bad sailor." "He didn't even trouble himself to say that. He was in such a hurry to refuse that he didn't bother about an excuse. And this afternoon he called, when I was in, and never asked for me, only left cards and bolted, although I had been to his house to ask him to come on _The Wanderer_." "Afraid of you, is he?" "I don't know, I'm sure. He's never been among _us_." "Poor chap! But surely that's a reason for him to want to get in?" "Wouldn't you think so? Wouldn't anyone think so? The way I'm bombarded! But he seems only anxious to keep out of everything." "A pose very likely." "I don't believe it is." "I leave it to you. No one sharper in London. Is he a gentleman--all that sort of thing?" "Oh, of course!"