"I don't wonder you need it," a friend of the more æsthetically cultured
type remarked one evening, finding him doing it. "You've been playing
round with the Urquhart-Fitzmaurice lot to-day, haven't you? Nice man,
Fitzmaurice, isn't he? I like his tie-pins. You know, we almost lost him
last summer. He hung in the balance, and our hearts were in our mouths.
But he is still with us. You look as if he had been very much with you,
Margery."

Peter looked meditative and stitched. "Old Fitz," he murmured, "is one of
the best. A real sportsman.... Don't, Elmslie; I didn't think of that, I
heard Childers say it. Childers also said, 'By Jove, old Fitz knocks
spots out of 'em every time,' but I don't know what he meant. I'm trying
to learn to talk like Childers. When I can do that, I shall buy a tie-pin
like Fitzmaurice's, only mine will be paste. Streater's is paste; he's
another nice man."

"He certainly is. In fact, Margery, you really are _not_ particular
enough about the company you keep. You shun neither the over-bred nor the
under-bred. Personally I affect neither, because they don't amuse me. You
embrace both."

"Yes," Peter mildly agreed. "But I don't embrace Streater, you know. I
draw the line at Streater. Everyone draws the line at Streater; he's of
the baser sort, like his tie-pins. Wouldn't it be vexing to have people
always drawing lines at you. There'd be nothing you could well do, except
to draw one at them, and they wouldn't notice yours, probably, if they'd
got theirs in first. You could only sneer. One can always sneer. I
sneered to-day."

"You can't sneer," Elmslie told him brutally; "and you can't draw lines;