"Why not?"

"It isn't the game. I'm here on your business, which is ever so much
more important than mine. Where are this morning's letters?"

I pointed to an unopened heap on a writing-table at the end of the room.
He crossed and sat down before them. Presently he turned sharply.

"You haven't looked through the envelopes. Here is one from Sicily."

I took the letter from him, and sighed to myself as I read it. Eleanor
was miserable. The Sicilians were dirty. The Duomo of Palermo did
not come up to her expectations. The Mobray-Robertsons, with whom she
travelled, quarrelled with their food. They had never even heard of
Theocritus. She had a cold in her head, and was utterly at a loss to
explain my attitude. Therefore she was coming back to London.

I wish I could find her a nice tame husband who had heard of Theocritus.
It would be such a good thing for everybody, husband included. For, I
repeat, Eleanor is a young woman of fine character, and the man to whom
she gives her heart will be a fortunate fellow.

While I was reading the letter and meditating on it, with my back to
the fire, Dale plunged into the morning's correspondence with an air of
enjoyment. That is the astonishing thing about him. He loves work.
The more I give him to do the better he likes it. His cronies, who in
raiment, manners, and tastes differ from him no more than a row of pins
differs from a stray brother, regard a writing-chair as a mediaeval
instrument of torture, and faint at the sight of ink. They will put