"No. In that case I shan't marry at all. I shall settle down to the life of a lonely bachelor—choose the broad and easy path that leads to single misery, Harry." He laughed.
"Instead of the straight and narrow road that leads to married unhappiness," said Harry. "So you are very keen on Daphne?"
"Not exactly that, perhaps. But it must be her or no one for a life-partner. She's the only girl who ever made any appeal to me from the point of view of domestic life. When I think of a happy home and a fireside with her, it makes me curl like an autumn leaf."
"What a curious chap you are," said Harry, smiling.
"See here," said Van Buren, taking a letter out of his pocket. "I've got a letter from a lady—it's signed Flora Luscombe—but I don't seem to remember anything about her."
Harry took the letter. It was written on mauve paper in a somewhat straggling hand, and was dated from "Dimsdale Mansions, St. Stephen's Road, North Kensington." It was a pathetic, yet cheery invitation to tea.
"It's Miss Luscombe, of the Tank, as we call it," said Harry.
"Oh, the actress? Well, I think I shall go, Harry. I've never had the opportunity of mixing much in dramatic circles. It's real kind of her to have asked me, I must say. I didn't even remember her."
"No one ever remembers her. But it's amusing and absurd. You'll meet some of the people you like. Flora will show you round—point out all the obscurities there, and so forth. Oh, she's a good soul—old Flora."
"Is she old, Harry?"