“Lost a fine chance! Might have had an interest in something of mine.”
“Might I?”
“Had your chance—didn’t take it. Too late now!”
“Is it?” said Quiltan.
PART EIGHT
THE LEAP
I
Clementine Rendall lay in bed and watched the sun-patterns of the string-coloured pile carpet. The birds on the lettuce-green trees of Kensington Square sang gaily of summer and their adventurous flights from the roof of John Barker’s to the happy hunting ground of Earl’s Court. It was a good day, he reflected, a day full of scent and harmony, and yet for some reason he felt oppressed.
“Parsons,” he said, as his man entered with a small tea-tray. “Parsons, I have an impression that I am not going to enjoy myself.”
“I hope that won’t be so, sir.”
“So do I, Parsons; but I fear the worst. How old am I?”