your skin? I don't say there wasn't any resemblance; it was for the
moment extraordinary; it was even when you were here the other night
distinctly arresting. But now (poor old Grisel, I'm nearly done) all I
want to say is this: that if we had the "foxy old roue" here now, and
Grisel played Paris between the three of us, she'd hand over the apple
not to you but to me.'

'I don't quite see where poor Paris comes in,' suggested Grisel meekly.

'No, nor do I,' said Herbert. 'All that I mean, sagacious child, is,
that Mr Lawford no more resembles the poor wretch now than I resemble
the Apollo Belvedere. If you had only heard my sister scolding me,
railing at me for putting such ideas into your jangled head! They
don't affect ME one iota. I have, I suppose, what is usually called
imagination; which merely means that I can sup with the devil, spoon
for spoon, and could sleep in Bluebeard's linen-closet without turning
a hair. You, if I am not very much mistaken, are not much troubled with
that very unprofitable quality, and so, I suppose, when a crooked and
bizarre fancy does edge into your mind it roots there.'

And that said, not without some little confusion, and covert glance of
inquiry at his sister, Herbert made all the haste he could to catch up
the course that his companions had already finished.

If only, Lawford thought, this insufferable weariness would lift awhile
he could enjoy the quiet, absurd, heedless talk, and this very friendly
topsy-turvy effort to ease his mind and soothe his nerves. He might even
take an interest again in his 'case.'

'You see,' he said, turning to Grisel, 'I don't think it really very
much matters how it all came about. I never could believe it would last.
It may perhaps--some of it at least may be fancy. But then, what isn't?
What is trustworthy? And now your brother tells me my hair's turning
grey. I suppose I have been living too slowly, too sluggishly, and they
thought it was high time to stir me up.'

He saw with extraordinary vividness the low panelled room; the still
listening face; the white muslin shoulders and dark hair; and the
eyes that seemed to recall some far-off desolate longing for home and
childhood. It was all a dream. That was the end of the matter. Even now,
perhaps, his tired old stupid body was lying hunched up, drenched with
dew upon the little old seat under the mist-wreathed branches. Soon it
would bestir itself and wake up and go off home--home to Sheila