Dale
carried off the situation lightly. It was he who was the man of the
world, and I the unresourceful stumbler.
"He's looking ripping, isn't he, Lady Durrell? I met old Oldfield the
other day, and he was raving about your case. The thing has never been
done before. Says they're going mad over your chap in Paris--they've
given him medals and wreaths and decorations till he goes about like a
prize bull at a fair. By Jove, it's good to see you again."
"You might have taken an earlier opportunity," Agatha remarked with some
acidity.
"So I might," retorted Dale blandly; "but when a man's a born ass it
takes him some time to cultivate sense! I've been wanting to see you for
a long time, Simon--and to-night I just couldn't resist it. You don't
want to kick me out?"
"Heaven forbid," said I, somewhat brokenly, for the welcome sight of his
face and the sound of his voice aroused emotions which even now I do not
care to analyse. "It was generous of you to come up."
He coloured. "Rot!" said he, in his breezy way.
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