“Oh, of course, of course,” Mrs. Aldwinkle agreed almost impatiently; that wasn’t anything much to talk about. “But one hears odd stories of his amorous tastes, you know.” The party halted at the door of Mrs. Aldwinkle’s room. “Perhaps that was one of the reasons,” she went on mysteriously, “why he went travelling all that time—right away from civilisation....” On such a theme a conversation might surely be almost indefinitely protracted; the moment for uttering the final, fatal good-night had not yet come. Downstairs in the great saloon the three men were sitting over their red wine. Mr. Cardan had already twice refilled his glass. Calamy was within sight of the bottom of his first tumbler; young Lord Hovenden’s was still more than half full. He was not a very accomplished drinker and was afraid of being sick if he swallowed too much of this young and generous brew. “Bored, you’re just bored. That’s all it is,” Mr. Cardan was saying. He looked at Calamy over the top of his glass and took another sip, as though to his health. “You haven’t met any one of late who took your fancy; that’s all. Unless, of course, it’s a case of catarrh in the bile ducts.” “It’s neither,” said Calamy, smiling. “Or perhaps it’s the first great climacteric. You don’t happen to be thirty-five, I suppose? Five times seven—a most formidable age. Though not quite so serious as sixty-three. That’s the grand climacteric.” Mr. Cardan shook his head. “Thank the Lord, I got past it without dying, or joining the Church of Rome, or getting married. Thank the Lord; but you?” “I’m thirty-three,” said Calamy. “A most harmless time of life. Then it’s just boredom. You’ll meet some little ravishment and all the zest will return.” Young Lord Hovenden laughed in a very ventriloquial, man-of-the-worldly fashion. Calamy shook his head. “But I don’t really want it to return,” he said. “I don’t want to succumb to any more little ravishments. It’s too stupid; it’s too childish. I used to think that there was something rather admirable and enviable about being an _homme à bonnes fortunes_. Don Juan has an honoured place in literature; it’s thought only natural that a Casanova should complacently boast of his successes. I accepted the current view and when I was lucky in love—and I’ve always been only too deplorably fortunate—I used to think the more highly of myself.” “We have all thought the same,” said Mr. Cardan. “The weakness is a pardonable one.” Lord Hovenden nodded and took a sip of wine to show that he entirely agreed with the last speaker.