"Very, very tired of it!" he answered. "Isn't everybody?"
"Of course not. Neither are you really. It is only a mood. Some day you will succeed in what you seem trying so hard to do, and then you will be sorry—and perhaps some others!"
"If one could believe that," he murmured.
"Two months ago," she continued, "every one was saying that you had made up your mind to end your days in the hunting-field. All Melton was talking about your reckless riding, and your hairbreadth escapes."
"Both shockingly exaggerated," he said, under his breath.
Perhaps; but apart from the papers I have seen people who were out and who have told me that you rode with absolute recklessness, simply and purely for a fall, and that you deserved to break your neck a dozen times over. Then there was your week in Paris with Prince Comfrere, and now your supper-parties are the talk of London."
"They are justly famed," he answered, gravely, "for you know I brought home the chef from Voillard's. I am sorry that I cannot ask you to one.
"Don't be ridiculous, Arranmore. Why do you do these things? Does it amuse you, give you any satisfaction?
"Upon my word I don't know," he answered.
"Then why do you do it?"