with Chip again. He had been danced with twice by Helen, and felt that he had earned a respite.
"How long do you think you'll be gone?" he asked, on hearing the news.
"I suppose that depends on Mr. de Lisle."
"Is he Stephen de Lisle? The man who was . . . what was it? . . . Home Secretary, I think. A good many years ago. And I seem to remember some tremendous quarrel, with the then Prime Minister. A man with a very fine head. I remember his pictures quite well."
"That's Old Stephen. He was a great, great friend of mine when I was seven, and I haven't seen him since. But he's always been in love with Madame Claire—since before she married my grandfather. People of their generation did that sort of thing—loved for a lifetime. I wonder why nobody does now?"
"Are you sure they don't?" he asked.
"Certain of it. The thing to do nowadays is to console oneself as quickly as possible. And I think there is a good deal of prejudice against wasting lives, and wasted lives. And rightly, too, I suppose." Then, changing the subject: "I'll be away for several weeks, and I wish you'd write to me and let me know if the headaches have stopped, and how you're getting on, generally. I
