He sat down before the fire and lighted a fresh cigar, which wasn't good for him.
"Must avoid making a martyr of Jim or there will be trouble," he mused. "There remains another way—make a martyr of myself."
He sat swinging his monocle around his forefinger, gazing vacantly at the pattern the shadows cast across the hearth.
"Avalon!" he said, abruptly. "Avalon! The 'back-to-nature' business, 'grass-cure' and all. It can't harm either Catharine or me, I fancy—or any other pair of donkeys!"
