ing gold in your hair, and you were quite Byzantine. And then,
again, a few days after I saw you, and--er--oh well, anyhow--you always
look nice."

"I suppose you mean," she murmured, feeling shy at talking so much of
herself, "that most girls look best in the evening."

"There I venture to differ from you entirely. All girls, all women, look
their best in the afternoon. The hat is everything. Evening dress is the
most trying and unbecoming thing in the world; only the most perfect
beauties, who are also very young and fresh, can stand it. The most
becoming thing for a woman is either _neglige_, or a hat. You,
particularly, Madeline, look your best in the afternoon."

"I wish then that I lived in that land where it is always afternoon!"
she said, laughing.

He gave his superior little smile. "The Lotus Eaters? Good. I didn't
know you cared for Tennyson."

"I don't," she answered hastily, anxious to please.

He raised his eyebrows. "Then you should. Have you a favourite poet,
Madeline?"

"Oh yes, of course--Swinburne."

She thought this a perfectly safe thing to say.

"Strong meat for babes," he of course replied, and then began to murmur
to himself: "_For a day and a night love sang to us, played with us._
You think that beautiful, Madeline?"

"Oh yes. How beautifully you say it!"

He laughed. "Quoting poetry at Rumpelmeyer's! Well, perhaps no place is
quite prosaic where ..."

She looked up.

He took another tea-cake.

... "Where there's anyone so interested, so intelligent as yourself."

He had returned to the indulgent, encouraging schoolmaster's tone.

"Do you know In the Orchard?" he went on, and murmured: "_Ah God, ah
God! that day should be so soon!_ Well! May I smoke a cigarette?"

"Oh, of _course_."

"Oh ... Madeline!"

"Yes, Mr. Denison?"

"Who is Nigel Hillier?"

"Oh, don't you know him?"

"Of course I know him; we belong to the same club, and that sort of
thing, but that doesn't tell me who he is."

She was wondering what Rupert meant exactly by who, but supposed he was
speaking socially, so she said hesitatingly:

"Well, Nigel Hillier ... he married that Miss----"

He interrupted her, putting up his hand rather like a policeman in the
traffic. "I know all about his marriage, my dear friend. I didn't ask
you whom he married. Who _is_ he?"

"Bertha and Percy have known him all their lives--at least all Bertha's
life."

"Oh yes. Then he's a friend of Percy Kellynch? But tha