hat we
have come under the influence of a master spirit."

She looked at the pile of letters by her side, but Maraton only shook
his head.

"We must parody his own phrase and declare that 'Selingman is here!'" he
said. "Go and put your things on and tell Aaron. We will steal out
like conspirators at the back door."

They lunched at a roadside inn in Buckinghamshire, an inn ivy-covered,
with a lawn behind, and a garden full of cottage flowers. Selingman
with his own hands dragged out the table from the little sitting-room,
through the open windows to a shaded corner of the lawn, drew the cork
from a bottle of wine, and taking off his coat, started to make a salad.

"Insects everywhere," he remarked cheerfully. "Hold your parasol over
my salad, please, Miss Julia. So! What does it matter? Where there
are flowers and trees there must be insects. Let them live their day of
life."

"So long as we don't eat them!" Julia protested.

"I have tasted insects in South America which were delicious," Selingman
assured them. "There--leave your parasol over the salad, and, Maraton,
move the ice-pail a little more into the shade. Now, while they set the
luncheon, we will walk in that little flower garden, and I will tell
you, if you like, a story of mine I once wrote, the story of two roses.
I published it, alas! It is so hard to save even our most beautiful
thoughts from the vulgarity of print, in these days where
everything--love and wine, and even the roses themselves--cost money.
Bah!"

"The story, please," Julia begged.

He walked in the middle and took an arm of each of his companions.

"So you would hear my little story?" he exclaimed. "Then listen."

They obeyed. Presently he forgot himself. His eyes were half-closed,
his thoughts seemed to have wandered into the strangest places. As his
allegory proceeded, he seemed to drift away from all knowledge of his
immediate surroundings. He chose his words always with the most
exquisite and precise care. They listened, entranced. Then suddenly he
stopped short in the path.

"For half an hour have I been giving of myself," he declared. "Almost I
faint. Come."

He tightened his grasp upon their arms and started walking with short,
abrupt footsteps--and great haste for the luncheon table.

"Fool that I am!" he muttered. "It is one o'clock, and I lunch always
at half-past twelve. I must eat quickly. See, the waiter looks at us
sorrowfully. What of the omelette, I wonder? C