ses for myself," he murmured.

"That's all I'm doing. The decent thing is to go to Gilbert and tell him
everything ... or ... or I could write it. I could write a long letter
to him and get Magnolia to give it to him.... Perhaps that 'ud be better
than telling him. It'll be difficult to get a chance to say anything to
him with Roger and Ninian about...."

He broke off his thoughts and spoke out loud. "You're funking it," he
said. "Damn you, you're funking it!"

"I must tell him myself," he went on. "I must stand up to some one. I
can't go on funking things forever...."

It was odd, he thought, that he had no feeling for Jimphy. He had not
any sense of shame because he had made love to Jimphy's wife. Jimphy
appeared to him only in a comic light. Yet Jimphy had professed
friendship for him. "Of course," he said, "they don't love each other!"
but in this mood of self-confession which held him, he admitted that he
would have felt no contrition even if Jimphy had been devoted to Cecily.

"He's a born cuckold!" he went on. "I might be afraid to take his wife
from him, but I wouldn't be ashamed to do it. No one would...."

He had opened the door and gone quickly up the stairs, hoping that he
would not meet any of the others. Gilbert would probably be in his study
or in his bedroom, and so he could talk to him at once and get the thing
over. He knocked on the study door, and then, receiving no answer,
opened it and looked in. Gilbert was not there. He went to the bedroom
and called "Are you in, Gilbert?" but there was no response. "I suppose
he's downstairs," he said to himself, and he walked part of the way down
to the dining-room, stopping midway when he saw Magnolia.

"Tell Mr. Farlow I want to speak to him," he called to her. "Up in my
study!"

He went to his room, and stood staring out of the window until Gilbert
came.

"Hilloa, Quinny, what's up?" Gilbert said, as he entered the study.

Henry turned to him. He could _feel_ the pallor of his cheeks, so
nervous was he.

"Gilbert," he said desperately, "I want to talk to you!"

"Yes?..."

"I'm not going to Ireland with you!"

"Not going!... Why?"

He moved mechanically towards Gilbert and stopped at the table where he
wrote. He stood for a few moments, fingering things, turning over pieces
of foolscap and tapping the table with a paper knife.

"What is it, Quinny?" Gilbert said again, and as he spoke, he came up to
Henry and touched him. "Is it ... is it