is own society. He was, in
fact, rather sharp-set for the freedom of solitude, that he might pursue
one or two self-appointed tasks without interruption.

For one of these Sum Fat, not without wonder, furnished him materials:
canvas, stout thread, scissors, a heavy needle, a bit of beeswax: with
which Whitaker purposed manufacturing an emergency ankle-strap. And at
this task he laboured diligently and patiently for the better part of
two hours, with a result less creditable to his workmanship than to a
nature integrally sunny and prone to see the bright side of things.
Whitaker himself, examining the finished product with a prejudiced eye,
was fain to concede its crudity. It was not pretty, but he believed
fatuously in its efficiency.

His other task was purely one of self-examination. Since afternoon he
had found reason gravely to doubt the stability of his emotional poise.
He had of late been in the habit of regarding himself as one whose mind
retained no illusions; a bit prematurely aged, perhaps, but wise with a
wisdom beyond his years; no misogynist, but comfortably woman-proof; a
settled body and a sedate, contemplating with an indulgent smile the
futile antics of a mad, mad world. But now he was being reminded that no
man is older than his heart, and that the heart is a headstrong member,
apt to mutiny without warning and proclaim a youth quite inconsistent
with the years and the mentality of its possessor. In fine, he could not
be blind to the fact that he was in grave danger of making an ass of
himself if he failed to guide himself with unwonted circumspection.

And all because he had an eye and a weakness for fair women, a lonely
path to tread through life, and a gregarious tendency, a humorous
faculty and a keen appreciation of a mind responsive to it....

And all in the face of the fact that he was not at liberty to make
love....

And all this problem the result of a single day of propinquity!

He went to bed, finally, far less content with himself than with the
crazy issue of his handicraft. The latter might possibly serve its
purpose; but Hugh Whitaker seemed a hopeless sort of a proposition, not
in the least amenable to the admonitions of common sense. If he were,
indeed, he would have already been planning an abrupt escape to Town. As
matters stood with him, he knew he had not the least intention of doing
anything one-half so sensible.

But in spite of his half-hearted perturbation and dissatisfac