"But what's the use of keepin' fit?" said Monsieur Profond.
"Yes, sir," murmured Michael Mont, "what do you keep fit for?"
"Jack," cried Imogen, enchanted, "what do you keep fit for?"
Jack Cardigan stared with all his health. The questions were like the buzz of a mosquito, and he put up his hand to wipe them away. During the War, of course, he had kept fit to kill Germans; now that it was over he either did not know, or shrank in delicacy from explanation of his moving principle.
"But he's right," said Monsieur Profond unexpectedly, "there's nothin' left but keepin' fit."
The saying, too deep for Sunday afternoon, would have passed unanswered, but for the mercurial nature of young Mont.
"Good!" he cried. "That's the great discovery of the war. We all thought we were progressing—now we know we're only changing."
"For the worse," said Monsieur Profond genially.
"How you are cheerful, Prosper!" murmured Annette.
"You come and play tennis!" said Jack Cardigan; "you've got the hump. We'll soon take that down. D'you play, Mr. Mont?"