“Yes,” answered Allyne, also grown serious; “he wants us to spend the night with him in Carlton House Terrace—going over his papers, that sort of thing. The poor devil is regularly bowled over for some reason. Queer turn for him to take—the coolest man I ever met, you know. I’m half inclined to believe that the speculative strain of the last year has been too much for him—in fact, that his mind is threatened; I do indeed.” “Nonsense!” exclaimed Travers impatiently. “And for heaven’s sake, don’t let him suspect that you feel in any such way about it! Why, man, he cares no more about the ups and downs on ’Change than you care about my books. I was with him the day he dropped eighty thousand pounds in Kaffirs a few years ago, and I could not get him to care about it as much as he should have done, for it was no laughing matter with him at that time. No, Allyne, my boy, Fair’s troubles are not financial—and as for women——” “Yes, that’s the difficulty,” broke in Allyne. “If it were almost any other man, one might say, ‘Find the lady in the puzzle’; but Fair is an iced edition of Sir Galahad. But whatever it is, he has a horror of some kind eating out that big, warm, pure heart of his. And, Travers, old man, we must get at the truth tonight and save him.” “Right you are,” answered Travers heartily; “but I have my doubts as to our ability to get inside of him. He’s so beastly—But hush—here they come from church.” As he spoke Fair and Lady Poynter strolled quietly up the gravel path toward the terrace, followed shortly by Sir Nelson, who was pointing out his splendid flowers to Mrs. March. “Good morning,” said Travers and Allyne in concert, rising to meet them. “You naughty boys,” scolded little old Lady Poynter, shaking a finger at the unregenerate pair. “Not at church—and such a lovely sermon, too!” “All about loving one another,” commented Mrs. March, coming up. “Lovely? I should say so.” “And delivered in a voice of tepid silk,” remarked Fair, with so much spirit that Travers and Allyne looked at each other relieved. “By Jove, you know, the vicar’s voice is a bit trying after the first five minutes, is it not?” said Sir Nelson, who invariably slumbered after the period he mentioned, during the sermon. “Well, trying or not, we all eat, do we not?” remarked Lady Poynter. “So I’m off to hurry luncheon, for I want you all to drive over to the Derwents’ this afternoon, and I can’t persuade Mr. Fair to stop tonight. In half an hour—and till then be good.” The good old soul went away into the house to stir up the servants, and Sir Nelson, taking Fair’s arm, said: “Fair, what was it you wanted to say?” “Ah, yes,” answered Fair, smiling; “if Mrs. March will forgive me for leaving her to be bored by these two schoolboys, I’ll have a little chat with you, Sir Nelson, in the library.”