He asked this in such sad earnestness that we hastened to assure him we
were not married, though we felt he ought to have known that much; we
had been intimate for some time.

"Then it's only boredom," he said. "Just satiety and world-weariness.
Well, if you assure me you aren't married you can climb into this cart
and I'll take you for a drive. I'm bored, too. I want to do something
dark and dreadful and exciting."

We clambered in, of course, yapping with delight and treading all over
his toes; and as we set off, Harold demanded of him imperiously whither
he was going.

"My wife," he replied, "has ordered me to go and look up the curate and
bring him home to tea. Does that sound sufficiently exciting for you?"

Our faces fell. The curate of the hour was not a success, from our point
of view. He was not a funny man, in any sense of the word.

"--but I'm not going to," he added, cheerfully. "Then I was to stop at
some cottage and ask--what was it? There was NETTLE-RASH mixed up in it,
I'm sure. But never mind, I've forgotten, and it doesn't matter. Look
here, we're three desperate young fellows who stick at nothing. Suppose
we go off to the circus?"

Of certain supreme moments it is not easy to write. The varying shades
and currents of emotion may indeed be put into words by those specially
skilled that way; they often are, at considerable length. But the sheer,
crude article itself--the strong, live thing that leaps up inside you
and swells and strangles you, the dizziness of revulsion that takes the
breath like cold water--who shall depict this and live? All I knew was
that I would have died then and there, cheerfully, for the funny man;
that I longed for red Indians to spring out from the hedge on the
dog-cart, just to show what I would do; and that, with all this, I could
not find the least little word to say to him.

Harold was less taciturn. With shrill voice, uplifted in solemn chant,
he sang the great spheral circus-song, and the undying glory of the
Ring. Of its timeless beginning he sang, of its fashioning by cosmic
forces, and of its harmony with the stellar plan. Of horses he sang,
of their strength, their swiftness, and their docility as to tricks.
Of clowns again, of the glory of knavery, and of the eternal type that
shall endure. Lastly he sang of Her--the Woman of the Ring--flawless,
complete, untrammelled in each subtly curving limb; earth's highest
output, time's noblest expression. At least, h