asses men make of themselves." He was becoming more fuddled as the
warmth of the room closed over his wine-heated brain. But his eyes had
changed. They had narrowed to two twinkling slits of gay
secretiveness. "More things in heaven and earth than you dream of, old
chap. But you don't dream, do you? Never did. Got your teeth into
facts--diseases--and getting on--and all that. What's a song and a
dance to you? But I wish you liked her, all the same. P'raps you do,
only you won't own up. She liked you, you know. Fact is, it was she
sent me along to dig you out."

At that Stonehouse was caught up sharply out of his indifference. He
flushed and thrust his hands into his pockets to prevent them from
clenching themselves in absurd resentment.

"What do you mean?"

Cosgrave nodded. But he looked suddenly confused and rather sulky,
like a play-tired child who has been shaken out of its sleep to be
cross-examined.

"Well--some people would be jolly flattered. There's to be a big beano
on her birthday--a supper party behind the scenes--and she said: 'You
bring along your nice, sad, little friend--_ce pauvre jeune homme_.'
You know, Stonehouse, it made me laugh, her describing you like that.
I said: 'You don't need to be sorry for Robert Stonehouse. He can keep
his own end up as well as anybody.' But she said: '_Ce pauvre jeune
homme_.' I couldn't get her to see you were a damned lucky fellow."
He dropped back into the corner of the chesterfield and yawned and
stretched himself. "I want you to come too. Do you good. P'raps
she's right. P'raps you've had a rotten time in your own way. Though