“My dear Montagu, that is just what we did not do. We played hide-and-seek with the many-headed hydra, and it has collared us now, and our game is up. On the day when you see the triviality of our past, as I do, you will act as I act, and you will say what I have said.”
“My dear fellow”—Vane shook his head wisely—“that is quite impossible unless I become a Goth. I am one of those who never alter; but, the day you recognise your folly, you will find me the same as ever, ready to welcome you as our critic in all matters of art.” And he passed on.
“Ever the same, incorrigible; I dare not think what his end will be.” And Sinclair turned his steps towards the window where Eva and Gwen were sitting.
“I always told you, darling Eva, that Sinclair would be brought unconsciously to understand the right purport of life on the day when he realised the true meaning of art.” Gwen pressed Eva’s hand. “Sinclair the fastidious, the cynic, is no more, and the man whom you honoured with your love and trust is coming to claim you.” Eva laid her head on her friend’s shoulder, as she watched Sinclair, who was coming towards them.
“Mr Danford,” said Lady Carey, who was reclining in another window, “you have just arrived in time. Do tell us who that is going on to the platform? I am so short-sighted.”
The little satirist briskly turned on his heels and looked at the thick-set, purple-faced man who was besieging the platform.
“Why, that is ex-General Wellingford!”
“What, the man who bungled so disastrously the early part of our African campaign?” inquired Lady Carey.
“The very same, madam,” answered Danford.
“I am off,” suddenly exclaimed Lionel. “The old fellow does not interest me in the least. Besides, there is nothing more to be said about the African campaign since our troops have had to return from South Africa, leaving the country and the people to themselves. Au revoir, Lady Carey. Are you staying, Mowbray?”