at down opposite to one another. For there was no formality at
this meal, and people began just when they felt inclined.

"I don't understand," Reggie answered, looking at her across his
mushrooms.

"Why, you have worn it for two days already."

"This? No. Esme and I have some sent down every morning from a florist's
in Covent Garden."

"Really! Is it worth while?"

"I think that sort of thing is the only sort of thing that is worth
while. Most people are utterly wrong, they worship what they call great
things. I worship little details. This flower is a detail. I worship
it."

"Do you regard it as an emblem, then?"

"No. I hate emblems. The very word makes one think of mourning rings,
and everlasting flowers, and urns, and mementoes of all sorts. Why are
people so afraid of forgetting? There is nothing more beautiful than to
forget, except, perhaps, to be forgotten. I wear this flower because its
colour is exquisite. I have no other reason."

"But its colour is not natural."

"Not yet. Nature has not followed art so far. She always requires time.
Esme invented this flower two months ago. Only a few people wear it,
those who are followers of the higher philosophy."

"The higher philosophy! What is that?"

"The philosophy to be afraid of nothing, to dare to live as one wishes
to live, not as the middle-classes wish one to live; to have the courage
of one's desires, instead of only the cowardice of other people's."

"Mr. Amarinth is the high priest of this philosophy, I suppose?"

"Esme is the bravest man I know," said Reggie, taking some marmalade. "I
think sometimes that he sins even more perfectly than I do. He is so
varied. And he escapes those absurd things, consequences. His sin always
finds him out. He is never at home to it by any chance. Why do you look
at me so strangely?"

"Do I look at you strangely?" she asked, with a sudden curious
nervousness. "Perhaps it is because you are so strange, so unlike the
men whom I have been accustomed to. Your aims are different from
theirs."

"That is impossible, Lady Locke."

"Impossible! Why?"

"Because I have no aims; I have only emotions. If we live for aims we
blunt our emotions. If we live for aims, we live for one minute, for one
day, for one year, instead of for every minute, every day, every year.
The moods of one's life are life's beauties. To yield to all one's moods
is to really live."

Mrs. Windsor's voice was heard outside at this moment, a