"I don't mean that," said he; "I mean let's go down and stay for a while quietly at some nice place—I mean you and Ravenshaw here—for business will oblige me to come back to town."
"No, thanks," said Simon; "I'm quite happy in London."
"But think how nice it will be in the country this weather," said Bobby. "London's so hot."
"I like it hot," said Simon; "weather can't be too hot for me."
Then the gentle persuaders alternately began offering inducements—bowls, golf, a jolly bar at an hotel they knew, even girls.
They might just as well have been offering buns to the lions of Trafalgar Square.
Then Bobby had an idea, and, leaving the room, he had a conference on the stairs with Madame Rossignol; with Cerise also.
Then leaving Simon to the women for a while, they went for a walk, and returned to find the marble wax.
Simon did not mind a few days in the country if the ladies would come as his guests; he was enthusiastic on the subject now. They would all go and have a jolly time in the country. The old poetical instinct that had not shown itself up to this, restrained, no doubt, by the mesmerism of London, seemed to be awakening and promising new developments.
Bobby did not care; poetry or a Pickford's van were all the same to him as long as they got Simon out of London.