taken--and he so rarely took decisive steps; he felt
pleased with himself. It was with a whetted appetite that he came in to
breakfast.

"Good-morning," said Mr. Scogan. "I hope you're better."

"Better?"

"You were rather worried about the cosmos last night."

Denis tried to laugh away the impeachment. "Was I?" he lightly asked.

"I wish," said Mr. Scogan, "that I had nothing worse to prey on my mind.
I should be a happy man."

"One is only happy in action," Denis enunciated, thinking of the
telegram.

He looked out of the window. Great florid baroque clouds floated high
in the blue heaven. A wind stirred among the trees, and their shaken
foliage twinkled and glittered like metal in the sun. Everything seemed
marvellously beautiful. At the thought that he would soon be leaving
all this beauty he felt a momentary pang; but he comforted himself by
recollecting how decisively he was acting.

"Action," he repeated aloud, and going over to the sideboard he helped
himself to an agreeable mixture of bacon and fish.

Breakfast over, Denis repaired to the terrace, and, sitting there,
raised the enormous bulwark of the "Times" against the possible assaults
of Mr. Scogan, who showed an unappeased desire to go on talking about
the Universe. Secure behind the crackling pages, he meditated. In
the light of this brilliant morning the emotions of last night seemed
somehow rather remote. And what if he had seen them embracing in the
moonlight? Perhaps it didn't mean much after all. And even if it did,
why shouldn't he stay? He felt strong enough to stay, strong enough to
be aloof, disinterested, a mere friendly acquaintance. And even if he
weren't strong enough...

"What time do you think the telegram will arrive?" asked Mary suddenly,
thrusting in upon him over the top of the paper.

Denis started guiltily. "I don't know at all," he said.

"I was only wondering," said Mary, "because there's a very good train at
3.27, and it would be nice if you could catch it, wouldn't it?"

"Awfully nice," he agreed weakly. He felt as though he were making
arrangements for his own funeral. Train leaves Waterloo 3.27. No
flowers...Mary was gone. No, he was blowed if he'd let himself be
hurried down to the Necropolis like this. He was blowed. The sight of
Mr. Scogan looking out, with a hungry expression, from the drawing-room
window made him precipitately hoist the "Times" once more. For a long
while he kept it hoisted. Lowering it at