ed. "I'm a Universalist. At any rate in theory, or
rather in the conviction of what best suits myself. I'm one of those men
who are born to be free, who've got to fill their lungs with air, who
must get out into the wilds if they're to live--God! I'd sooner be
snowed up on a battlefield than smirk at a damned afternoon tea-party
any day in the week! If I want a woman, I like to take her by her hair
and swing her up behind me on the saddle and ride away with her--"

"Lord! That's lovely," said I. "How often have you done it?"

"I've never done that exactly, you silly ass," said he. "But that's my
attitude, my philosophy. You see how impossible it would be for me to
tie myself for life to the stay-strings of one flip of a thing in
petticoats."

"You're a blessed innocent," said I.

Adrian sauntering through the French window of my library joined us on
the terrace. Jaffery, forgetful of his attitude, his philosophy, caught
him by the shoulders and shook him in pain-dealing exuberance. Old
Adrian was going to be married. He wished him joy. Yet it was no use his
wishing him joy because he already had it--it was assured. That
exquisite wonder of a girl. Adrian was a lucky devil, a pestilentially
lucky devil. He, Jaffery, had fallen in love with her on sight. . . .

"And if I hadn't told him that Miss Jornicroft was engaged to you," said
I, "he would have taken her by the hair of her head and swung her up
behind him on the saddle and ridden away with her. It's a little way
Jaffery has."

In spite of sunburn, freckles and pervading hairiness of face, Jaffery
grew red.

"Shut up, you silly fool!" said he, like the overgrown schoolboy that he
was.

And I shut up--not because he commanded, but because Barbara, like
spring in deep summer, and Doria, like night at noontide, appeared on
the terrace.

Soon afterwards lunch was announced. By common conspiracy Jaffery and
Susan upset the table arrangements, insisting that they should sit next
each other. He helped the child to impossible viands, much to my wife's
dismay, and told her apocalyptic stories of Bulgaria, somewhat to her
puzzledom, but wholly to her delight. But when he proposed to fill her
silver mug (which he, as godfather, had given her on her baptism) with
the liquefied dream of Paradise that Barbara, _sola mortalium_, can
prepare, consisting of hock and champagne and fruits and cucumber and
borage and a blend of liqueurs whose subtlety transcends human thought