hansom, eh?" he said. "Or let's have a drink first."

In the Monico, they sat round a table and nothing mattered to Maurice
and Jenny, except eyes. The room seemed full of eyes, not the eyes of
its chattering population, but their own. Never before had a London
night seemed so gay. Never before had _creme de menthe_ been dyed so
richly green. They began to discuss love and jealousy. As Romeo
hesitated before he joined the fatal masquerade, Maurice was seized with
an impulse to make himself as poor a thing as possible.

"I couldn't be jealous," he vowed. "I think everybody can be in love
with two or three people at once."

"I don't," said Jenny.

"Oh, yes, it's absurd to be jealous. Quite absurd. Different people suit
different moods. The only trouble is when they meet."

He had caught hold of Jenny's hand while they were speaking, and now she
drew it away.

"I think I know what he means," said Irene.

"You think so," scoffed Jenny. "You! You're potty, then."

Maurice felt sorry for Irene and weakly took her hand. She let it
recline in his listlessly. It was cold and damp after Jenny's vitality.

"If I loved a man," said Jenny, "I should be most shocking jealous."

"What would you do if you met him with another girl?" asked Maurice.

"I should never speak to him again."

"Wouldn't that be rather foolish?"

"Foolish or not, that's what I should do."

"Well, I'm not jealous," vowed Maurice. "I never have been."

"Then you're silly," asserted Jenny. "Jealous! I'm terribly jealous."

"It's a mistake," said Maurice. "It spoils everything and turns a
pleasure into a nuisance."

"I don't think I'm jealous of you-know-who," put in Irene.

"Oh, him and you, you're both mad!" exclaimed Jenny. "But if ever I love
a man----"

"Yes," said Maurice eagerly.

Two Frenchmen at the next table were shuffling the dominoes. For Maurice
the noise had a strange significance, while he waited for the
hypothesis.

Jenny stared away up to the chandeliers.

"Well?" said he. Somebody knocked over a glass. Jenny shivered.

"It's getting late," she said.

"What about driving home?" asked Maurice.

Outside it was pouring. They squeezed into a hansom cab. Again his
politeness seemed bound to mar the evening.

"Let's see. Irene lives at Camden Town. We'd better drive to Islington
first and leave Jenny, eh?"

Then Jenny said quite unaccountably to herself and Irene:

"No, thanks. We'll drive Irene home first."

Maurice