The FainÉant Club was going to the devil, which was unnecessary, considering the state of the weather. There was nobody about—including Wentworth Boyle. The magazines were uncut—cutting meant energy. The tape machine ticked out nothing but cricket scores, in which I am not interested. A waiter was sleeping in a chair in a remote corner, the only suggestion of coolness about the place. There was absolutely nothing to do. It was too hot to swear.

I went to the window and looked out. Piccadilly was a glaring Sahara. The rows of horses across the way were limp as chewed string, and lived for nothing but the next water-cart that should pass and drench their burning hocks. The trees bore spiritlessly their burden of dust; and the only energetic thing in sight was an impervious newsboy crying the fatalities of the heat-wave—a Song of Degrees.

I was in a fermenting state of discontent. The season had only just begun, and there were at least six weeks of this to look forward to—six weeks of hot, breathless theatres, and daily martyrdoms on the Row. The season was confounded rot. I had half a mind to throw the whole thing up. I went to the writing-table, wrote a complaint to the committee on the iced drinks, murmured the prayer for rain, and returned to the window.

Why did the women look so cool when the men were in such a state of collapse? Millicent Dixon had just driven past, looking as fresh as a buttercup. I saw Millie Dixon twice a week on an average, and she always did look fresh. Yet she must be eight-and-twenty.

I determined to walk, if I could do so without risking a sunstroke. The first parasol of my acquaintance that passed should be my refuge, provided the bearer were not too stout. I am stoutish myself.

A white gown was tripping—tripping!—towards the club window, which, from a certain trick of carriage, should belong to Mrs. Loring Chatterton. I calculated my time carefully, and stepped from the club awning to the shelter of the sunshade. Mrs. Loring is slight.

“My dear Mr. Butterfield, how do you do?”

“Thank you, my dear lady,” I replied; “with a little basting I shall do to a turn.”

“Oh! isn’t it?” she said. “I never knew such heat in May. You must feel it terribly, Mr. Butterfield.”

Now, I am not so stout as all that. Thirteen four, for a bachelor approaching forty, and of personable height, is no extravagant riot of flesh.

“I admit to a certain warmth,” I replied; “but when your own, permit me to say, somewhat meagre presence has ripened to a more generous noontide, perhaps you will resent any ostentatious sympathy on the subject.”

Mrs. Loring laughed. She always refused to take my dignity seriously. To her I am not Rollo Butterfield, LL.D. (ceased to practise), but Mr. Butterfield, who may be allowed to see the children in bed, should he wish it, and who is sacrificed on the altar of intimacy to take in to dinner nervous schoolgirls, and act as escort and general convenience in shopping expeditions.

“Well,” said Mrs. Loring, “I don’t think you ought to mind at your time of life. Let me see, how much older than Loring are you?”

“Mrs. Loring Chatterton, perhaps you prefer to walk to Wilton Place alone?”

“It must be rather hard on you,” said this incorrigible lady, laughing.

I looked at the sunshade and at the glare that shone mercilessly on my patent leathers. Decision of action was never my strong point, and the firmest principles will soften at ninety-two in the shade. I capitulated. Compromise beneath a parasol was better than dignity in the sun.

We walked along. By the exercise of much ingenuity in mapping out a track that should consist of the maximum of shade, by the strategic use of large vans and the skirting of a person with a huge umbrella, whose shadow was as that of a great rock in a thirsty land, we arrived at Wilton Place, and, in response to Mrs. Loring’s invitation to come and have tea, I followed her in.

Mrs. Loring’s drawing-room was cool as a cloister. I foundered on to a sofa and closed my eyes, while my hostess, as a last impertinence, vapourised me in passing with a tiny scent fountain, and left me in a luxury of dim light.

Such a retreat, at my time of life, was very soothing. My meridian was pretty near the full, and I had a right to a drowsy siesta before facing again the afternoon glow whose level rays would decline to the long evening. I lazily watched a fly that was spinning a soft drone in the twilighted room, and blinked through my half-closed eyes at the few white splashes of sunlight on the floor, vivid in the subdued tone. Bowls of flowers cooled the air with perfume, and the Genius of Rest brooded over the place. The afternoon with its business would come, no doubt; but for the present this was my oasis.

Mrs. Loring reappeared in a tea-gown whose gossamer frothed daintily about her neck. She looked the pink of freshness—and yet she was within three years of thirty. I took a kind of pleasure in the thought. Loring was a lucky man.

A tray was brought in, and this attentive lady fluttered round the little silver urn, and ministered to my paresse with tea and lemon. I grew humorously melancholy, and lapsed into gentle vistas of reminiscence. I believe I sighed.

Mrs. Loring mentally referred the sigh to corpulence, for she came over with tea, and said, “There, poor man. That will cool you.”

I half rose from my reclining posture, and shook my head as I took the cup.

“No, madam,” I said, “tea-leaves cannot allay the dust of memory. I sigh for what once was, for what might have been now. I sigh for Ten Years Back. Do you ever sigh for Ten Years Back?”

From the puzzled way in which she looked at me, she evidently did not.

“Ten years back,” I continued, “you and I were yet young.”

She tried to look wrinkled.

“Ten years back you were interested in painting, and visited the National Gallery. Millie Dixon was also interested in painting and also visited the National Gallery. Loring Chatterton didn’t give a hang for painting, yet he dragged me round to the National Gallery. I paid the sixpences.”

“Anyway you were always glad enough to see Millie Dixon; you didn’t do it out of pure self-sacrifice.”

“The National Gallery,” I continued, not heeding the interruption, “is one of the great storehouses of the world’s art. It is the pride of a great nation. I went there for purposes of study; but how did you profit by it? You used it for rubbing shoulders and squeezing hands.”

“I know how you profited by it,” said Mrs. Loring, laughing. “You used to study the water-colours down-stairs, and you got locked in one day. Millie Dixon, by the way, got locked in too.”

“Millie Dixon always had foresight,” I said musingly.

“But you never painted, and Millie Dixon did.”

“In spite of your insinuation, Mrs. Loring, I never ascertained that. Her complexion——”

“Then you ought to have done. Here are you two still hanging on in the same position as ten years ago. I gave Millicent a month if she knew her business. Loring and I didn’t take so long. I am disappointed in you. I’m sure it’s not Millie’s fault.”

That was hardly fair. Millie had never thrown herself at me.

“If you’d made love to Millicent,” she went on, “you’d not have been a lonely fat old bachelor, living in a horrid flat, and wasting your time at clubs and race meetings.”

“Mrs. Loring Chatterton,” I replied, “if I’d made love to Millicent I should have been just as—mature of outline, and should still have been a bachelor. It is my gift. I was born a bachelor. I should have said, 'Miss Dixon, if you love me, let me remain a bachelor.’ She would have said, 'As a bachelor you first loved me; be always my own bachelor.’ It is, alas! my single talent. I was made for singleness.”

“Rubbish! You know you like Millicent.”

“Dear madam, I like all ladies—as a garden of flowers, yet I cannot bring myself to pluck one.”

“Then why do you sigh for ten years back?”

That is the worst of women—they have a way of being suddenly logical when no one expects it of them. Mrs. Loring is a charming woman, but I must be careful. One or two lapses into sentiment like this, and she will have me married to Miss Dixon before I know where I am. But my weakness was over. I pulled myself together.

A burning white spot of sunshine had been slowly crossing the floor in my direction, had mounted the sofa, and was threatening to disturb my repose. It brought back the hot streets and the stifling club, and was invading my sanctuary with vivid glare. I was moving along out of its way when a bell rang.

“Oh! and the tea’s cold!” said Mrs. Loring, with the first thought of a hostess. “I’ll have to get some more in.”

Miss Millicent Dixon entered unannounced.

“My Dear Molly,” cried Miss Dixon, “if you love me, give me some tea. How do you do, Mr. Butterfield? Do you know, Moll, I have been rushing about for two mortal hours trying to find a wedding present for Madge Beaumont, and I haven’t got one! Do help me—Mr. Butterfield——”

“Oh, don’t ask him,” Mrs. Loring struck in; “Mr. Butterfield’s been getting sentimental. Between ourselves, Millie, he came dangerously near to a lucid interval. He’s been sighing over a misspent life, and wishing he were years younger.”

“Is it announced yet, Mr. Butterfield?” inquired Millicent mischievously. “Who is she?”

“Promise to tell Millie before any one else, Mr. Butterfield,” said Mrs. Loring.

The machinating married woman! No bachelor is safe with her. I said nothing.

“Then it is true!” said Miss Dixon, “and I shall need two wedding presents. Mr. Butterfield, the unassailable bachelor! I shall give you Paradise Lost, Mr. Butterfield.”

“Ladies,” I answered, “you are unfair. You catch me in a weak moment, suffering from sunstroke, and accuse me of good resolutions. Does my previous bad character go for nothing? May I not have a half-hour’s weakness without hearing of it again? It is my first offence. Oh, how difficult is the true Bachelor Ideal!”

“Then you are not engaged, Mr. Butterfield?” said Millicent.

“Not to my knowledge, Miss Dixon. I admit to a certain wavering. If it comes again I will take you into my confidence; in the meantime we will discuss Miss Beaumont’s wedding present.”

We went into committee on the subject. I was still the Compleat Bachelor.

But I had presentiments.