what counts. At any rate, any indication of the plot at this stage would be decidedly inadequate.”

“I think you are right,” she ventured. “By all means choose your own time to tell me. Let’s talk of something else. Have you written anything since your delightful book of verse last spring? Surely now is your singing season. By the time we are thirty the springs of pure lyric passion are usually exhausted.”

Ethel’s inquiry somehow startled him. In truth, he could find no satisfactory answer. A remark relative to his play — Clarke’s play — rose to the threshold of his lips, but he almost bit his tongue as soon as he realised that the strange delusion which had possessed him that night still dominated the undercurrents of his