When the sketch has been wrapped up between cardboards, and the twelve hundred francs placed carelessly on a table, there seems no reason why Mr. Jim Wyndham shouldn't start for the cathedral. But he suddenly decides that the way of wisdom is to eat first, and begs me to lunch with him. "Do, please," he begs, "just to show you're not offended with my false pretences."
I yearn to say yes, and don't see why I shouldn't; so I do. We have déjeuner together in the summer-house where Brian and I always eat. We chat about a million things. We linger over our coffee, and I smoke two or three of his gold-tipped Egyptians. When we suppose an hour has gone by, at most, behold, it is half-past four! I tell him he must start: he will be too late for the cathedral at its best. He says, "Hang the cathedral!" and refuses to stir unless I promise to dine with him when he comes back.
"You mean in a fortnight?" I ask. "Probably we shan't be here."
"I mean this evening."
"But—you're not coming back! You're going another way. You told me——"
"Ah, that was before we were friends. Of course I'm coming back. I'd like to stay to-morrow, and——"
"You certainly must not! I won't dine with you to-night if you do."
"Will you if I don't?"
"Perhaps."
"Then I'll order the dinner before I start for the cathedral. I want it to be a perfect one."