“Obviously. And how long did it take you to write this little book?”
“Oh, only about seven years—the actual composition. I never had much time to myself, you must remember.”
“You’re a good soul, Thomas. Go and equip yourself for civilized society.”
To the club they repaired on foot. Micklethwaite would talk of anything but that which his companion most desired to hear.
“There are solemnities in life,” he answered to an impatient question, “things that can’t be spoken of in the highway. When we have eaten, let us go to your flat, and there I will tell you everything.”
They lunched joyously. The mathematician drank a bottle of excellent hock, and did corresponding justice to the dishes. His eyes gleamed with happiness; again he enlarged upon the benevolence of mankind, and the admirable ordering of the world. From the club they drove to Bayswater, and made themselves comfortable in Barfoot’s flat, which was very plainly, but sufficiently, furnished. Micklethwaite, cigar in mouth, threw his legs over the side of the easy-chair in which he was sitting.
“Now,” he began gravely, “I don’t mind telling you that your conjecture was right. I am going to be married.”
“Well,” said the other, “you have reached the age of discretion. I must suppose that you know what you are about.”
“Yes, I think I do. The story is unexciting. I am not a romantic person, nor is my future wife. Now, you must know that when I was about twenty-three years old I fell in love. You never suspected me of that, I dare say?”
“Why not?”