He felt how fine and amusing it was to have a genuine, incurable,
illogical passion for a woman,--a passion that was almost an instinct.
He deliberately cultivated it and dwelt on it and enjoyed it. He liked
reflecting upon it. He esteemed that it must be about the most
satisfying experience in the entire realm of sentiment, and that no
other earthly experience of any sort could approach it. He made this
discovery for himself, with the same sensations as if he had discovered
a new star or the circulation of the blood. Of course he knew that
two-thirds of the imaginative literature of the world was based on, and
illustrative of, this great human discovery, and therefore that he was
not exactly a pioneer. No matter! He was a pioneer all the same.

"Do you remember a fellow named Angmering?" he began, on a note of the
closest confiding intimacy--a note which always flattered and delighted
his wife.

"Yes."

"What was he like?"

"Wasn't he the man that started to run away with Ronnie Philps' wife and
thought better of it and got her out of the train at Crewe and put her
into the London train that was standing at the other platform and left
her without a ticket? Was it Crewe or Rugby--I forget which?"

"No, no. You're all mixed up. That wasn't Angmering."

"Well, you have such funny friends, darling. Tell me, then."

"Angmering never ran away with anybody except himself. He went to