Soon, again, after the long day’s shoot, the smoking-room yawned itself to bed, and cabinet ministers, the traveller, and the astronomer being gone, Frank was left alone with Martin. There was no design in the matter,—both hated going to bed as much as both detested getting up, but they were neither of them sorry to have the opportunity of more talk. Frank had got up from his chair on the last exit, took a whiskey-and-soda, and moved to the fireplace.
“Lady Sunningdale is extraordinarily clever,” he remarked, “but I can no more discuss anything with her than I could with a dragon-fly. She is always darting.”
Martin laughed.
“Go on, then,” he said.
Frank sat down.
“Are you determined, Martin?” he asked.
“I think so. I don’t see what else I can do.”
“I asked you a question before dinner, which you didn’t have time to answer. Is it as much to you as Chopin?”
“Why do you repeat that?” asked Martin. “It does not seem to me apt. How can I make such a comparison?”
“Easily, I should have thought.”