LOVE'S LABOUR.
I walked into Charles's room with undoubted meaning—that is to say, he could see I intended to be there.
"Hello!" said Charles. "Help yourself to a chair."
"Thanks," I said—"thanks," and I sat down.
Charles looked at me thoughtfully. "There's something the matter," he said.
"Ah! You've noticed it too, Charles. I thought so myself."
"Have you any idea what it is?" he asked.
I looked him steadily in the face. "Charles," I began, "you are a stockbroker. You know the value of money." He groaned.
"Very well, I have a question to ask you—a simple financial question. It is this. What, in your opinion as a stockbroker, a level-headed stockbroker, is the least one can start on?"
"It all depends," he said. "Of course there's the deposit of securities, £1000, and then—"
I waved my hand. "My dear man," I said, "I'm not thinking of marrying the Stock Exchange."
Charles closed his eyes. "Good Lord," he murmured. "Poor old thing. I never thought of this. Take a cigarette—or perhaps you don't smoke now."
I took a cigarette with a fine independence. I carried it further and borrowed a match.
"Now," I said, "we must try and keep to the point. What is the least one can start on?"
"I don't know," he replied. "I've never begun. By the way, I must congratulate you. Who is she?"
"Daphne," I said, and smiled wanly.
"You don't look well."
"I love her," I said simply, and the pathos of it all fairly gripped me.
Charles smoothed his hair. "We'd better stick to business," he said.
In an instant I was a business man. "Right," I said crisply. "Let me put the question in another way. What is the least on which one can start?"
"Well, it all depends on what sort of an establishment you wish to keep up. If you—"
"Nothing," I said quickly, "is good enough for Daphne. She's so absolutely sweet. She sings, Charles, divinely. She dresses perfectly. She plays the pianoforte exquisitely. She sings, did I say, divinely."
"Talking of establishments," said Charles—
"You're right," I agreed, and I moved into a chair by the table and drew out my fountain pen. "We shall want a house," I began helpfully.
"A house? Oh, yes, I know. One of those things with rooms. Just one house would do for a start, I suppose?"
I regarded him sorrowfully. "Charles, this is a serious matter."
"There's humour in everything if you look for it. How about eight hundred?"
"Eight hundred!" I laughed brokenly.
"Well, seven hundred?"
"Ha! ha!"
"Six hundred? Dash it, that's very little."
"Charles," I pleaded.
"I don't want to be hard," he said, "but in justice to the people who come to stay with you I can't go any lower."
"Not if we did without wine?"
"Six hundred."
"Wine and cigars, Charles?"
"Six hundred."
"I'll give up auction."
Charles cleared his throat as though about to make a concession.
"Make it five," I pleaded. "Make it five and you shall be my best man."
"Very well," he said, "I make it five hundred."
"And now, Charles, good-bye."
"Why good-bye?"
"I love her," I said simply.
"Poor old thing," he said. "Let me know about the wedding. I must make a point of being there."
I pressed his hand. "You're a brick," I said.
Then I hurried out into a taxi and drove to Daphne's.
She refused me.