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But I felt grateful to it. It was saving me from an
unconscionable deal of worry. Fancy going to a confounded office every
morning like a clerk in the City! I was happier at peace. I rose and
warmed myself by the fire. Dale regarded me uncomprehendingly.
"You look as if the prospect bored you to tears. I thought you would be
delighted."
"_Vanitas vanitatum_," said I. "_Omnia vanitas_."
"Rot!" said Dale.
"It's true."
"I must fetch Eleanor Faversham back from Sicily," said Dale.
"Don't," said I.
"Well, I give you up," he declared, pushing his chair from the table and
swinging one leg across the other. I leaned forward and scrutinised his
ankles.
"What are you looking at?"
"There must be something radically wrong with you, Dale," I murmured
sympathetically. "It is part of the religion of your generation to wear
socks to match your tie. To-day your tie is wine-coloured and your socks
are green----"
"Good Lord," he cried, "so they are! I dressed myself anyhow this
morning."
"What's wrong with you?"
He threw his cigarette impatiently into the fire.


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