to get to sleep as quickly as possible;
then there's the poor lean young man who danced all night with
Evelyn; he's putting his flower in water and asking himself, 'Is this
love?'--and poor old Perrott, I daresay, can't get to sleep at all,
and is reading his favourite Greek book to console himself--and the
others--no, Hirst," he wound up, "I don't find it simple at all."

"I have a key," said Hirst cryptically. His chin was still upon his
knees and his eyes fixed in front of him.

A silence followed. Then Helen rose and bade them good-night. "But," she
said, "remember that you've got to come and see us."

They waved good-night and parted, but the two young men did not go back
to the hotel; they went for a walk, during which they scarcely
spoke, and never mentioned the names of the two women, who were, to a
considerable extent, the subject of their thoughts. They did not wish
to share their impressions. They returned to the hotel in time for
breakfast.

Chapter XIII

There were many rooms in the villa, but one room which possessed a
character of its own because the door was always shut, and no sound of
music or laughter issued from it. Every one in the house was vaguely
conscious that something went on behind that door, and without in the
least knowing what it was, were influenced in their own thoughts by the
knowledge that if the passed it the door would be shut, and if they made
a noise Mr. Ambrose inside would be disturbed. Certain acts therefore
possessed merit, and others were bad, so that life became more
harmonious and less disconnected than it would have been had Mr. Ambrose
given up editing _Pindar_, and taken to a nomad existence, in and out
of every room in the house. As it was, every one was conscious that by
observing certain rules, such as punctuality and quiet, by cooking
well, and performing other small duties, one ode after another was
satisfactorily restored to the world, and they shared the continuity of
the scholar's life. Unfortunately, as age puts one barrier between human
beings, and learning another, and sex a third, Mr. Ambrose in his study
was some thousand miles distant from the nearest human being, who in
this household was inevitably a woman. He sat hour after hour among
white-leaved books, alone like an idol in an empty church, still except
for the passage of his hand from one side of the sheet to another,
silent save for an occasional choke, which drove him to extend his pip