“Fit, my dear fellow? not at all.”
It was one of Castleton’s little jocularities with life to consider himself likely at any moment to become a confirmed invalid. “I was up in Bagdad, and I picked up an English paper which said that Harrogate was looking lovely, and somehow I felt homesick and seedy, and all that sort of thing, so I just cut the East and came slap on here.”
“Do you know,” said Jacynth gravely, “that there are moments when I feel much more inclined to cut the West and go, as you say, ‘slap on’ to some sleepy Eastern place—Bagdad perhaps, or Japan—and dream away the rest of my life.”
“The rest of your life? You talk as if you were ninety!” And Castleton slapped his fat little leg merrily.
“Don’t you know what the man-at-arms says in Thackeray’s ballad?” Jacynth replied. “‘Wait till you come to forty year.’ Well, I have come to forty year, pretty nearly. I was thirty-nine three weeks ago—and do you know, Castleton, there are times when I’m tired of the whole business.”
“By Jove! what would the judges say if they heard the famous Clitheroe Jacynth talking like this?”
“My dear fellow, I’m not famous, and if I were, what’s the good of being famous at the price of becoming a fossil?”
“Do you know,” said Castleton, with a grin, “I believe you must be mashed on somebody or other, by Jove, I do. If you talk——”
Before Castleton had finished his sentence he became aware that Jacynth was not paying him much attention. In fact, Jacynth’s gaze seemed to be directed very intently toward the end of the garden, and Jacynth’s mind appeared to be giving no heed whatever to Castleton’s amiable garrulity. So Castleton, following the direction of his friend’s glance, saw in the distance a woman’s form, a form that was familiar to him, a form that he had already seen that day.
“By Jove!” said Castleton to himself softly. He had no time to say more, even to himself, for Jacynth had jumped to his feet and was bidding him good-by.