cents the
slaughterhouse. And yet his dress was immaculate; he was tailored and
laundered as though for an occasion of joy. Everything that he wore was
discreetly festive, from the lavender gloves and shiny topper to the
striped trousers and canvas spats. One would have said that he was a
caricature of George Grossmith on his way to a garden-party.

But he was hot--terribly hot; far more hot than he had any excuse for
being in brisk spring weather. There were beads of perspiration on his
forehead; his face was congested with excitement. To lend the touch of
humor, which always lurks behind other people's tragedies, he held his
top-hat by the brim in his right hand, as though he were taking a
collection, while from his left, like a feather-duster, trailed an
enormous bunch of roses. He was a short man in the late thirties,
red-headed and inclined to be podgy. He was not built to express poetic
passions--how many of us are, if it comes to that?--or to sustain their
onslaught with dignity. Emotion seemed to have bloated him with unshed
tears. There was nothing noble in his distress--only a farcical
appearance of wretchedness.

As Tabs crossed the hall to the front-door, just inside of which Adair
was standing, he felt an undeserved compassion for him--the kind of
compassion one feels for a clumsy dog, which is always getting under
people's feet. At the same time he couldn't help marveling that there
should be two women at the same time in the world who were willing to
compete for such a man's affections.

"I happened to be lunching here," Tabs commenced conventionally. But he
altered his tactics promptly. In the presence of his friend's
self-advertised misery nothing but the briefest truth seemed adequate.

"Old man, it's no good. She won't see you. She doesn't want you."
Forgetting his sense of justice, he placed his hand affectionately on
Adair's shoulder.

Adair stared in a full-blown way and nodded. "She never did want me."

He passed no comment on this unforeseen meeting in the little house with
the marigold-tinted curtains. He manifested no resentment against this
familiar angel who had been deputed to bar the gates of Eden to his
approaches. He was incapable of surprise. He was obsessed by the
solitary idea of his own forlornness. "I knew it. She never did want
me." And then, in a rush of self-pity, "No one ever wanted me."

"Except Phyllis," Tabs suggested.

Adair appeared not to have heard. He stood like