"Unfortunately, yes," said Dove, ignoring the hint. "I assume it, from something he let drop this afternoon. Now, you know, your Mendelssohn ought to have been a brilliant piece of work—yes, the expression is not too strong. And it still must be. My dear Guest, what I came to say to you to-day—one, at any rate, of the reasons that brought me—was, that you must not allow your interest in what you are doing to flag at the eleventh hour."
Maurice laughed. "Oh, certainly not! Most awfully good of you to trouble."
"No trouble at all," Dove assured him. He flicked some dust from his trouser-knee before he spoke again. "I ... er ... that is, I had some talk the other day with Miss Wade."
"Indeed!" replied Maurice, and was now able accurately to gauge the motor origin of Dove's appearance. "How is she? How is Madeleine?"
"She was speaking of you, Guest. She would, I think, like to see you."
"Yes. I've rather neglected her lately, I'm afraid.—But when there's so much to do, you know ..."
"It's a pity," said Dove, passing over the last words, and nodding his head sagaciously. "She's a staunch friend of yours, is Miss Madeleine. I think it wouldn't be too much to say, she was feeling a little hurt at your neglect of her."
"Really? I had no idea so many people took an interest in me."
"That is just where you are mistaken," said Dove warmly. "We all do. And for that very reason, I said to myself, I will be spokesman for the rest: I'll go to him and tell him he must pull through, and do himself credit—and Schwarz, too. We are so few this year, you know."
"Yes, poor old man! He has got badly left."