Geoffrey sat in the sunlight on the gunwale of a fishing-boat.
"You can't do that," he said.
"Oh, Geoffrey, I was afraid you'd say it, and you have," said his friend, half laughing. "Why not?"
"Your career, old chap."
"My career," snorted Reggie, "protocol, protocol and protocol. I am fed up with that, anyway. Can you imagine me a be-ribboned Excellency, worked by wires from London, babbling platitudes over teacups to other old Excellencies, and giving out a lot of gas for the F.O. every morning. No, in the old days there was charm and power and splendour, when an Ambassador was really plenipotentiary, and peace and war turned upon a court intrigue. All that is as dead as Louis Quatorze. Personality has faded out of politics. Everything is business, now, concessions, vested interests, dividends and bond-holders. These diplomats are not real people at all. They are shadowy survivals of the grand siècle, wraiths of Talleyrand; or else just restless bagmen. I don't call that a career."
Geoffrey had listened to these tirades before. It was Reggie's froth.
"But what do you propose doing?" he asked.
"Doing? Why, my music of course. Before I left England some music-hall people offered me seventy pounds a week to do stunts for them. Their first offer was two hundred and fifty, because they were under the illusion that I had a title. My official salary at this moment is two hundred per annum. So you see there would be no financial loss."
"Then are you giving up diplomacy because you are fed up with it? or for Yaé Smith's sake? I don't quite understand," said Geoffrey.
He was still pondering over the scene of last evening, and he found considerable comfort in ascribing Yaé's behaviour to excitement caused by her engagement.