The room in which they were was small. It was named the tentroom, being
hung with dull-green draperies, which hid the ceiling and fell loosely to
the floor on every side. A heavy curtain shrouded the one door. On the
hearth flickered a fire, before which lay Valentine's fox-terrier, Rip.
Julian was half lying down on a divan in an unbuttoned attitude.
Valentine leaned forward in an arm-chair. They were smoking cigarettes.

"Julian," Valentine said, meditatively, "I sometimes wonder why you and
I are such great friends."

"How abominable of you! To seek a reason for friendship is as inhuman as
to probe for the causes of love. Don't, for goodness' sake, let your
intellect triumph over your humanity, Valentine. Of all modern vices,
that seems to me the most loathsome. But you could never fall into
anything loathsome. You are sheeted against that danger with plate
armour."

"Nonsense!"

"But you are. It sometimes seems to me that you and I are like Elijah and
Elisha, in a way. But I am covetous of your mantle."

"Then you want me to be caught from you into heaven?"

"No. I should like you to give me your mantle, your powers, your nature,
that is, and to stay here as well."

"And send the chariot of fire to the coach-house, and the horses of fire
to the nearest stables?"