"In Heaven's name, Simon," he cried, laying down his pencil, "what has
come over you?"

"Old age," said I.

He uttered his usual interjection, and added that I was only
thirty-seven.

"Age is a relative thing," I remarked. "Babes of five have been known
to die of senile decay, and I have seen irresponsible striplings of
seventy."

"I really think Eleanor Faversham had better come back from Sicily."

I tapped the letter still in my hand. "She's coming."

"I'm jolly glad to hear it. It's all my silly fault that she went away.
I thought she was getting on your nerves. But you want pulling together.
That confounded place you've been to has utterly upset you."

"On the contrary," said I, "it has steadied and amplified my conception
of sublunary affairs. It has shown me that motley is much more
profitable wear than the edged toga of the senator--"

"Oh, for God's sake, dry up," cried young England, "and tell me what
answers I'm to give these people!"

He seemed so earnest about it that I humoured him; and my correspondents
seemed so earnest that I humoured them. But it was a grim jest. Most of
the matters with which I had to deal appeared so trivial. Only here and