rugged his shoulders. "What's it matter? Probably to that cottage
of mine to play hermit and scourge myself for having allowed you to
mortify me and hold me up to the ridicule of your fulsome court of
admirers."

"Yes, that cottage of yours. You've forgotten your promise to drive me
over to see it, haven't you?"

Palgrave wheeled round. This was too much of a good thing. "Be careful,
or my rudeness will become more truthful than even you will be able to
swallow. Twice last week you arranged for me to take you over and both
times you turned me down and went off with young Oldershaw."

"What IS happening to my memory?" asked Joan.

"It must be the sea air."

He turned on his heel and walked away.

In an instant she was up and after him, with her hand on his arm.

"I'm awfully sorry, Gilbert," she said. "Do forgive me."

"I'd forgive you if you were sorry, but you're not."

"Yes, I am."

He drew his arm away. "No. You're not really anything; in fact you're
not real. You're only a sort of mermaid, half fish, half girl. Nothing
comes of knowing you. It's a waste of time. You're not for men. You're
for lanky youths with whom you can talk nonsense, and laugh at silly
jokes. You belong to the type known in England as the flapper--that
weird, paradoxical thing with the appearance of flagrant innocence and
the mind of an errand boy. Your unholy form of enjoyment is to put men
into false positions and play baby when they lay hands on you. Your
hourly delight is to stir passion and then run into a nursery and slam
the door. You dangle your sex in the eyes of men and as soon as you've
got them crazy, claim chastity and make them ashamed. One of these days
you'll drive a man into the sort of mad passion that will make him give
you a sound thrashing or seduce you. I don't want to be that man.
Oldershaw is too young for you to hurt and Hosack too old, and
apparently Martin Gray has chucked you and found some human real
person. As for me, I've had enough. Good morning."

And once more, having delivered himself coldly and clearly of this
brutally frank indictment he went up the steps to the veranda and into
the house.

There was not even the tail of a smile on Joan's face as she watched
him go.

Lunch was not quite the usual pleasant, happy-go-lucky affair that day.
The gallant little Major, recently married to the fluffy-minded Mrs.
Edgar Lee Reeves and her peevish little dog, sat on the right of the
overwhelmingly comp