"But it's true, Dorothy. I'm no good at explaining what I feel, don't you know; but ever since that day I first saw you in St. Mary's I've been terrifically keen on you. You drove me into taking up Sylvia. I don't care anything about Sylvia. Why, great Scot! she bores me to death. She talks forever until I don't know where I am. But I must do something. I can't just mope round London like an ass. You know, you're breaking my heart, that's what you're doing."
"You'd better go abroad," said Dorothy. "They mend hearts very well there."
"If you're not jolly careful I shall go abroad."
"Then go," she said, "but don't talk about it. I hate people who talk, just as much as you do."
Within a week Lord Clarehaven had equipped himself like the hero of a late nineteenth-century novel to shoot big game in Somaliland, and on the vigil of his departure Arthur Lonsdale came round to see Dorothy.
"Look here. You know," he began, "I'm the cause of all this. Hard-hearted little girls and all that who require a lesson."
"Yes, it's evident you've been spending a good deal of time lately with Sylvia," said Dorothy.
"Now don't start backfiring, Doodles. I've come here as a friend of the family and I don't want to sprain my tongue at the start. Poor old Tony came weeping round to me and asked what was to be done about it."
"It?" asked Dorothy, angrily. "What is it? The chimpanzee?"
"No, no, no. It is you and Tony. If you go on interrupting like this you'll puncture my whole speech. When Tony skidded over that rope of pearls and you froze him with a look, he came and asked my advice about what to do next. So I loosened my collar like Charles Wyndham and said: 'Make her jealous, old thing. There's only one way with women, which is to make them jealous. I'm going to make the Molyneux jealous. If you follow my advice, you'll do the same with the Lonsdale.'"