"Every man has to make an exception to every rule in the case of one woman."
His chin achieved an uncompromising angle.
"To quote the Pharisee of blessed memory," he said, "I thank God I am not as other men."
Elsie was well enough acquainted with his moods to know nothing was to be gained by further direct opposition.
"I should like you to come to Chester Square," she compromised; "but you mustn't be seen with me in public any more."
"I shall ride in the Park to-morrow as usual," he persisted.
"I shan't be there, Seraph."
A surprise was awaiting me when Gladys and I returned to Pont Street in the early hours of Sunday morning, after waiting to see the fireworks—by immemorial tradition—extinguished by a tropical downpour. Brian notified me by wireless that he was on his way home and halfway through the Bay. He was, in fact, already overdue at Tilbury, but had been held up while the piston of a high-compression cylinder divested itself of essential portions of its packing.
"Who's going to tell him about Phil?" Gladys asked in consternation when I read her the message. We were getting on so comfortably without my brother that I think the natural affection of us both was tinged with resentment that he was returning by an earlier boat than he had threatened.
"As you are the offender," I pointed out.