"To her, don't you mean?" said Craddock.
Charles flushed and laughed.
"Well, yes, to her," he said. "Why not?"
"Why not indeed? Every sensible young man likes to say some goodbye to a charming girl, if he can do no more than that. My dear fellow, if only I was your age, I should take a leaping heart to Egypt. And now that we've pricked that little troublesome bubble, tell me a little more about yourself and your life. I meant to have seen much more of you this last week or two, but I have been distractedly busy, and have seen no one but people on business. Apart from your work, have you been going about much?"
"Hardly at all. I don't know so many people you see. I dined with Lady Crowborough, though, a couple of nights ago, and she took me to a big party. Oh, and I met there such a strange queer fellow, name of Armstrong, who said he knew you. He wrote "Easter Eggs": such a ripping play. Have you seen it? He is going to take me to it next week."
Craddock puffed the smoked-out end of his cigarette from its amber tube into the grate.
"Yes, I know him," he said. "I should not have thought there was much in common between you."
"I'm not sure. I should like to find out. And, heavens, how I should like to paint his portrait. Where's the charcoal?"
Charles seized a stick and spread a loose sheet of paper on the table.
"Eye like that," he said, "with the eyebrow like a pent-house over it. Face, did you ever see such a jaw, square like that and hungry. That's the sort of face it pays to paint. There's something to catch hold of. And his ears are pointed, like a Satyr's. I think I must ask him to sit to me. I'll give him the portrait if he will."