``Well, I can't help doing that,'' said Clay. ``That is one of
the few privileges that is left to a man in my position--it
doesn't matter what I say. That is the advantage of being of no
account and hopelessly detrimental. The eligible men of the
world, you see, have to be so very careful. A Prime Minister,
for instance, can't talk as he wishes, and call names if he wants
to, or write letters, even. Whatever he says is so important,
because he says it, that he must be very discreet. I am so
unimportant that no one minds what I say, and so I say it. It's
the only comfort I have.''

``Are you in the habit of going around the world saying whatever
you choose to every woman you happen to--to--'' Miss Langham
hesitated.

``To admire very much,'' suggested Clay.

``To meet,'' corrected Miss Langham. ``Because, if you are, it
is a very dangerous and selfish practice, and I think your
theory of non-responsibility is a very wicked one.''

``Well, I wouldn't say it to a child,'' mused Clay, ``but to one
who must have heard it before--''

``And who, you think, would like to hear it again, perhaps,''
interrupted Miss Langham.

``No, not at all,'' said Clay. ``I don't say it to give her
pleasure, but because it gives me pleasure to say what I think.''