“In love with me?” he cried. “What on earth do you mean?” Reggie’s bewilderment equalled his own.

“Well, dash it all, old top, it surely isn’t news to you? She must have told you. Why, she told me!”

“Told you? Am I going mad?”

“Absolutely! I mean absolutely not! Look here.” Reggie hesitated. The subject was delicate. But, once started, it might as well be proceeded with to some conclusion. A fellow couldn’t go on talking about his iron-shots after this just as if nothing had happened. This was the time for the laying down of cards, the opening of hearts. “I say, you know,” he went on, feeling his way, “you’ll probably think it deuced rummy of me talking like this. Perfect stranger and what not. Don’t even know each other’s names.”

“Mine’s Bevan, if that’ll be any help.”

“Thanks very much, old chap. Great help! Mine’s Byng. Reggie Byng. Well, as we’re all pals here and the meeting’s tiled and so forth, I’ll start by saying that the mater is most deucedly set on my marrying Lady Maud. Been pals all our lives, you know. Children together, and all that sort of rot. Now there’s nobody I think a more corking sportsman than Maud, if you know what I mean, but—this is where the catch comes in—I’m most frightfully in love with somebody else. Hopeless, and all that sort of thing, but still there it is. And all the while the mater behind me with a bradawl, sicking me on to propose to Maud who wouldn’t have me if I were the only fellow on earth. You can’t imagine, my dear old chap, what a relief it was to both of us when she told me the other day that she was in love with you, and wouldn’t dream of looking at anybody else. I tell you, I went singing about the place.”

George felt inclined to imitate his excellent example. A burst of song was the only adequate expression of the mood of heavenly happiness which this young man’s revelations had brought upon him. The whole world seemed different. Wings seemed to sprout from Reggie’s shapely shoulders. The air was filled with soft music. Even the wallpaper seemed moderately attractive.

He mixed himself a second whisky and soda. It was the next best thing to singing.

“I see,” he said. It was difficult to say anything. Reggie was regarding him enviously.

“I wish I knew how the deuce fellows set about making a girl fall in love with them. Other chappies seem to do it, but I can’t even start. She seems to sort of gaze through me, don’t you know. She kind of looks at me as if I were more to be pitied than censured, but as if she thought I really ought to do something about it. Of course, she’s a devilish brainy girl, and I’m a fearful chump. Makes it kind of hopeless, what?”

George, in his new-born happiness, found a pleasure in encouraging a less lucky mortal.

“Not a bit. What you ought to do is to—”

“Yes?” said Reggie eagerly.

George shook his head.

“No, I don’t know,” he said.

“Nor do I, dash it!” said Reggie.

George pondered.

“It seems to me it’s purely a question of luck. Either you’re lucky or you’re not. Look at me, for instance. What is there about me to make a wonderful girl love me?”

“Nothing! I see what you mean. At least, what I mean to say is—”

“No. You were right the first time. It’s all a question of luck. There’s nothing anyone can do.”

“I hang about a good deal and get in her way,” said Reggie. “She’s always tripping over me. I thought that might help a bit.”

“It might, of course.”

“But on the other hand, when we do meet, I can’t think of anything to say.”

“That’s bad.”

“Deuced funny thing. I’m not what you’d call a silent sort of chappie by nature. But, when I’m with her—I don’t know. It’s rum!” He drained his glass and rose. “Well, I suppose I may as well be staggering. Don’t get up. Have another game one of these days, what?”

“Splendid. Any time you like.”

“Well, so long.”

“Good-bye.”

George gave himself up to glowing thoughts. For the first time in his life he seemed to be vividly aware of his own existence. It was as if he were some newly-created thing. Everything around him and everything he did had taken on a strange and novel interest. He seemed to notice the ticking of the clock for the first time. When he raised his glass the action had a curious air of newness. All his senses were oddly alert. He could even—

“How would it be,” enquired Reggie, appearing in the doorway like part of a conjuring trick. “If I gave her a flower or two every now and then? Just thought of it as I was starting the car. She’s fond of flowers.”

“Fine!” said George heartily. He had not heard a word. The alertness of sense which had come to him was accompanied by a strange inability to attend to other people’s speech. This would no doubt pass, but meanwhile it made him a poor listener.

“Well, it’s worth trying,” said Reggie. “I’ll give it a whirl. Toodleoo!”

“Good-bye.”

“Pip-pip!”

Reggie withdrew, and presently came the noise of the car starting. George returned to his thoughts.

Time, as we understand it, ceases to exist for a man in such circumstances. Whether it was a minute later or several hours, George did not know; but presently he was aware of a small boy standing beside him—a golden-haired boy with blue eyes, who wore the uniform of a page. He came out of his trance. This, he recognized, was the boy to whom he had given the note for Maud. He was different from any other intruder. He meant something in George’s scheme of things.

“‘Ullo!” said the youth.

“Hullo, Alphonso!” said George.

“My name’s not Alphonso.”

“Well, you be very careful or it soon may be.”

“Got a note for yer. From Lidy Mord.”

“You’ll find some cake and ginger-ale in the kitchen,” said the grateful George. “Give it a trial.”

“Not ‘arf!” said the stripling.

Chapter 11

George opened the letter with trembling and reverent fingers.

“Hey, mister!”

George looked up testily. The boy Albert had reappeared.

“What’s the matter? Can’t you find the cake?”

“I’ve found the kike,” rejoined Albert, adducing proof of the statement in the shape of a massive slice, from which he took a substantial bite to assist thought. “But I can’t find the ginger ile.”

George waved him away. This interruption at such a moment was annoying.

“Look for it, child, look for it! Sniff after it! Bay on its trail! It’s somewhere about.”

“Wri’!” mumbled Albert through the cake. He flicked a crumb off his cheek with a tongue which would have excited the friendly interest of an ant-eater. “I like ginger-ile.”

“Well, go and bathe in it.”

“Wri’!”

George returned to his letter.

“Hey, mister!”

“Good Heavens!” George glared. “What’s the matter now? Haven’t you found that ginger-ale yet?”

“I’ve found the ginger-ile right enough, but I can’t find the thing.”

“The thing? What thing?”

“The thing. The thing wot you open ginger-ile with.”

“Oh, you mean the thing? It’s in the middle drawer of the dresser. Use your eyes, my boy!”

“Wri’“.

George gave an overwrought sigh and began the letter again.