that much; we had been intimate for some time.

"Then it's only boredom," he said. "Just satiety and world-
weariness. Well, if you assure me you aren't married you can
climb into this cart and I'll take you for a drive. I'm bored,
too. I want to do something dark and dreadful and exciting."

We clambered in, of course, yapping with delight and treading all
over his toes; and as we set off, Harold demanded of him
imperiously whither he was going.

"My wife," he replied, "has ordered me to go and look up the
curate and bring him home to tea. Does that sound sufficiently
exciting for you?"

Our faces fell. The curate of the hour was not a success, from
our point of view. He was not a funny man, in any sense of the
word.

"--but I'm not going to," he added, cheerfully. "Then I was to
stop at some cottage and ask--what was it? There was NETTLE-
RASH mixed up in it, I'm sure. But never mind, I've forgotten,
and it doesn't matter. Look here, we're three desperate young
fellows who stick at nothing. Suppose we go off to the circus?"

Of certain supreme moments it is not easy to write. The varying
shades and currents of emotion may indeed be put into words by
those specially skilled that way; they often are, at considerable
length. But the sheer, crude article itself--the strong,
live thing that leaps up inside you and swells and strangles you,