It can be hardly necessary to say that Mabel caught Luke and Dot playing boats on the following evening. Luke was always discovered. He was even detected when he had done nothing.

As he dressed for dinner that night, he reflected that once more Mabel had disappointed him. He had expected her to get into a fury of jealousy, and to suspect him of the most criminal intentions with regard to Dot. This would have been real suffering for him, and he would have enjoyed it. But all she had said to him was that she wished he would behave a little more like a man and a little less like a baby, and an imbecile baby at that. All she had said to Dot was that she thought she could find her some other occupation. It was difficult for him to keep his temper. But he exercised self-control. In fact, he never spoke another word for the rest of the evening. It was a pity. He was such a pleasant man. Why could not Mabel see it?

Things were no better at breakfast next morning.

Mabel said, “Just fancy, Mrs. Smith in a sable stole at church last Sunday, and I know for a fact that he only gets three-ten. If it was real sable it was wicked, and if it was not she was acting a lie.”

Luke smote the table once with his clenched fist, spilt his tea, and resumed his newspaper.

“Further from Mabel,” he thought, as he mounted his bike. “Every day, in every way, I’m getting further and further.”

About two miles from Dilborough he became suddenly aware that two motor-cars were approaching him. They were being driven abreast at racing speed, and occupied the whole of the road. For one moment Luke thought of remaining where he was, and causing Mabel to be a widow. Then, murmuring to himself, “Safety first,” he ran up the grassy slope at the side of the road and fell off. Both the cars pulled up. A man’s voice sang out cheerily: “Hallo, Sharper. Hallo, hallo. Who gave you leave to dismount?”

Luke recognized the voice. One of the cars was driven by Lord Tyburn, and the other by his wife, Jona.

Luke hurriedly drove in a peg to mark the spot, and came down into the road again.

“How’s yourself?” said Lord Tyburn. “We’ve been away for two years. Timbuctoo, Margate. All over the place. Only got back to Gallows last night.”

Luke shook hands with him and with Jona.

“You’ve not changed much,” said Jona. “Same funny old face.”

“It is the only one that I happen to have, Lady Tyburn.”

“Oh, drop it. Call me Jona. You always used to, Lukie, you know. And Bill don’t mind; do you, Bill?”

“That? Lord, no. But what you have been and done, Sharper, is to spoil a very pretty and sporting event. Jona and I were racing to Halfpenny Hole, and I’d got her absolutely beaten.”

“Liar,” said Jona, “I was leading—leading by inches.”

“Ah, but I’d lots in reserve.”

“Strong, silent man, ain’t you?” said Jona.

They both laughed.

“Yes,” said Luke, “I’m afraid I was rather in the way. I seem to be almost always in the way. It happens at home. It happens at the office. I say, I wonder what you two would have done if you’d met a cart?”

“Jumped it,” said Jona, and laughed again.

“Sorry,” said Lord Tyburn, “but I must rush off. I’ve just spotted my agent, five fields away. So long, Sharper. Come up and inspect us soon.”

He drove the car up the grassy slope, smashed a way through the hedge—after all, it was his own hedge—and vanished.

“He drives wonderfully,” said Luke.

“He’s that kind,” said Jona. “He does everything well. He does himself well. Are you glad to see me again, Lukie?”

The tips of his ears crept slowly forward. “I shall have to think for a long time to know that I really am to see you again.”

“’Fraid I can’t wait a long time,” said Jona. “See you again soon.”

She waved her hand to him and drove off.

Luke rode on as if in a dream. Suddenly he became aware that he had passed the door of his office. He thought of turning round in the street and riding back, but he had turned round in the street once before, and a great number of people had been hurt. He dismounted and walked back.

As his custom was, he knocked at the door of Mr. Diggle’s room and entered. Mr. Diggle, who still retained much of his schoolmaster manner, sat at his desk with his back to Sharper. He did not look round.

“That you, Sharper?” he said.

“Yes, sir. Good morning,” said Sharper.

Diggle went on writing for a minute in silence, and then said drearily: “Well, what is it?”

“Please can I have that partnership now?” asked Sharper.

“Not to-day. Don’t fidget with your hands. Keep your ears quiet, if possible. Close the door gently as you go out.”

Luke went gloomily back to his own room. He had not done himself justice. He never did do himself justice with Diggle. Diggle made him feel as if he were fifteen.

But thoughts of Diggle did not long occupy his mind. Once more he seemed to be standing in the road, with the warm fragrance of petrol and lubricating oil playing on his face. Once more he saw her.

Jona.

Some would have hesitated to call her beautiful. To Luke she was all the beauty in the world. Concentrated. At one time Jona had had the chance of marrying him, but apparently she did not know a good thing when she saw it. Tyburn had the title and the property, and was better-looking and more amusing, and had stationary ears. But had he the character of a child martyr? He had not. Now Luke was great at martyrdom; also at childishness.

For nearly an hour Luke sat with his manuscript before him. He was writing another elegant little brochure. This one dealt with the jam-pots of Ancient Assyria. During that hour he did not write one single word, but thought continuously of Jona.

He pulled himself up abruptly. Why, he was married to Mabel. Of course, he was. It was just as if he could not trust his memory for anything these days. He had been rather rude to Mabel at breakfast. Well, not rude exactly, but not friendly. Mrs. Smith had a sable stole. He ought to have said something about it. He must try at once to think of something that would be said about a sable stole.

He must make it up to Mabel in some way. What could he give her? He could give her more of his society. He would stop work, go back to her at once, and be just as nice as nice could be.He put on his hat, and met Diggle in the passage.

“Where are you going?” said Diggle.

“I was going home, sir,” said Luke, “I’m not very well this morning.”

(For a Christian martyr he certainly did lie like sin.)

“Don’t let it occur again,” said Diggle.

He encountered Mabel in the hall of his house. She had a letter in her hand. She seemed surprised to see him, and very far from pleased.

“What in goodness are you here for?” she said. “Forgotten something?”

He set his teeth. In spite of discouragement, he was going to be very nice indeed.

“I am afraid,” he said, “I rather forgot my manners at breakfast this morning. Sorry.”

“I didn’t notice they were any worse than usual. You surely didn’t come back to say that?”

“Oh, no. I thought we’d take a holiday together. Like old times, what? We’ll go for a nice long walk, and take a packet of sandwiches and——”

“Oh, don’t be silly. I can’t possibly go out. Probably Mr. Doom Dagshaw is coming to lunch.”

“He’s a damned sweep,” said Luke impulsively, and corrected himself. “I mean to say, he’s not a man whose society I’m particularly anxious to cultivate.”

“How was I to know you would come barging in like this? I never wanted you to meet him.”

More self-control needed.“I shall be perfectly pleasant and chatty to him,” said Luke resolutely.

“This letter’s just come for you,” said Mabel. “The address is in Lady Tyburn’s handwriting.”

He blushed profusely. His ears waved to and fro. Why on earth had not Jona warned him that this was going to happen?

“Read it,” said Mabel.

He glanced through it. It was very brief.

“Well?” asked Mabel.

“It’s nothing. Nothing at all.”

“I should like to see it, if you don’t mind.”

She took the letter and read aloud: “Lukie, dear. Just back from two years’ travel. You two might blow in to lunch one day. Any old day. Chops and tomato sauce. Yours, Jona.”

“Most extraordinary,” said Mabel. “Why does she call you Lukie?”

“Well, damn it all,” said Luke, “she couldn’t call me lucky. Oh, what does it matter? We were boy and girl together. Innocent friends of long standing.”

“And what does this mean? Chops and tomato sauce? Chops! Gracious Heavens! And tomato sauce.”

“It’s just a joke. Silly, no doubt.”

“It might be an allusion to your complexion at the present moment. It might be a mere substitute for some endearing word or promise, agreeably to a preconcerted system of correspondence.”

He had an uneasy feeling that he had heard or read all this before somewhere.

“Merely a joke,” he pleaded. “And what does it matter?”

“She’s a cat, anyhow. She’d better keep off the grass, and I’ll tell her so. What did she say when she saw you this morning?”

“Hardly anything. Her husband was with her. I say, how on earth did you know?”

“Her husband was not with her when I met her. But do you know what this sudden return of yours means? This unusual desire to apologize for your manners, and to take me out for the day? Guilty conscience. I’m going into the garden to cut flowers for the luncheon table.”

“Let me come with you and hold the scissors?”

“If you hold the scissors, how the dickens am I going to cut the flowers? You’re really too trying.”

No, it was not going well. More self-control would be needed. A happy idea struck him.

“Didn’t you say that Mrs. Smith had a stable sole—I mean, a sable stole, in church or somewhere?”

“And you don’t try that on either.”

“I don’t suppose I should look well in it,” he said brightly.

He followed her into the garden. The flowers were cut, and subsequently arranged, in complete silence. He had the feeling that anything he said might not be taken down, but would certainly be used in evidence against him.

And then, in the hall, was heard the voice of Mr. Doom Dagshaw, the proprietor of the Mammoth Circus at the Garden Settlement.

“Lunch ready? So it ought to be. Don’t announce me. Waste of time. I know my way about in this house.”

He entered. He was a young man of sulky, somewhat dictatorial expression. His dress had something of the clerical appearance, an effect at which he distinctly aimed.

“Hallo,” he said, and sat down on the table and yawned. Then he caught sight of Luke.

“You here?” he said. “What for?”

“Just a little holiday,” said Luke nervously, “a little treat for me. You don’t mind?”

Doom Dagshaw did not answer him, but turned to Mabel.

“Lunch is ready,” he said, “let’s get on to it.”

They passed into the dining-room. Luke observing salmon at one end of the table, and cutlets at the other, asked, with a smile, if those two sentences generally ran concurrently.

“Oh, hold your jaw,” said Dagshaw.

“That’s the way to talk to him,” said Mabel approvingly.

“Yours, too,” Dagshaw added, turning to Mabel. “I’ll do any talking that has to be done. I’m here to talk about my circus. Yes, and to eat ham. Isn’t any? Ought to be. Give me three of those cutlets. You don’t realize what a circus is, you people. It’s a church. It’s a cathedral. It’s more.”

“I hope,” said Luke, “that it’s getting on nicely, and will be a great success.”

“Bound to be. Can’t help it. When I bought the land from the Garden Settlement Syndicate I made it a condition that there should be a clause in every lease granted that a year’s season ticket should be taken for the Mammoth Circus.”

“I don’t quite see,” said Mabel, “how it’s like a church.”

“The circus has a ring. The ring is a circle. The circle is the symbol of eternity. Will anybody be able to see my highly-trained chimpanzee in the trapeze act without realizing as he has never realized before, the meaning of the word uplift? Think of the stars in their program. And by what strenuous discipline and self-denial they have reached their high position.”

“‘Per ardua ad astra,’” quoted Luke.

“Hold your jaw. Three more cutlets. Think of the clowns. They tumble over, they fall from horses, they fail to jump through the rings. They are lashed by the whip of the ring-master. What a lesson in reverence is here. People who jeer, people who make fun, people who parody great works of fiction always and invariably come to a bad end. It will be not only a mammoth circus but a moral circus. It will be the greatest ethical institution in this part of the world. Its work will be more subtle than that of any other. Its appeal will be to the unconscious rather than to the conscious mind. Freud never thought of that. I did it myself. I am a genius. Potatoes.”

After lunch it was suggested that Mr. Doom Dagshaw should take Mabel up to the Garden Settlement to see the progress that was being made in the building of the Mammoth Circus.

“You won’t care to come?” said Mabel to her husband. And it seemed less like a question than a command.

“No, not in my line,” said Luke, still doing his best. “Hope you’ll enjoy yourselves.”

When they had gone, Luke retired to his study-bedroom. There was a tap at the door. It was Dot who entered.

“She’s out,” said Dot. “Boats?”

“Right-o. Gorgeous,” said Luke.

Normally dinner was at half-past seven. But Mabel did not get back till a quarter to eight. It was eight o’clock before they began. Mabel offered no explanation beyond saying that there really had been a great deal of architectural detail to examine. Luke had prepared a series of six pleasant and gratifying things to say about Mr. Doom Dagshaw and the Mammoth Circus. He found himself absolutely unable to say any of them. He could say other things. He could say “Windmill, watermill” ten times over, very quickly, without a mistake. But somehow he could not say Mammoth Circus.

Well, at any rate, he might be bright and amusing. At this time it was customary—perhaps too customary—to ask if you had read a certain book by a certain author, the name of the author being artfully arranged so as to throw some light on the title of the book. Luke remembered three of these which had been told him at the office. Unfortunately they were all of them far too improper for general use.

So he just said any bright thing that came into his mind. Mabel looked very tired. She admitted she was tired. She said she had walked about a thousand miles.

“And then I come back to this kind of thing,” she said.

The rest of the dinner, which was brief, passed in complete silence. Then Mabel went into the drawing-room, and Luke remained behind and lit a cigarette.

“This will never do,” he said to himself. “I must keep it up. I must be pleasant. I must say number one of those six sentences about Doom Dagshaw and the Mammoth Circus, even it if splits my palate and my tongue drops out.”

He threw down his cigarette, walked firmly into the drawing-room, and closed the door. “Mabel,” he said, “I hope you enjoyed your visit to the Doom Circus with Mr. Mammoth Dagshaw.”

Mabel looked up coldly from the book she was reading.

“Back again already?” she said. “Well, what was it you were saying?”

“I was saying,” said Luke gaily, “that I hoped you enjoyed your visit to the Dammoth Circus with Mr. Dag Moomshaw.”

“Port never did agree with you,” said Mabel. “You shouldn’t take it.” She resumed her book.

Luke tried the second of the pleasant sentences.

“Dagshaw always seems to me to be one of those masterful men who sooner or later——”

He ducked his head just in time, and the book which Mabel had thrown knocked over the vase of flowers behind him.

“If you can’t let me read in peace,” she said, “at any rate, you shan’t sneer at my friends. You’re always doing it, and everybody notices it. I simply can’t understand you. You’re like nothing on earth. What have you done with that love-letter of yours?”

“Oh, come,” he said, “I’ve had no love letter.”

“You silly liar; I mean the letter from your Lady Tyburn. Have you been kissing it?”

“Really, Mabel, this is absurd. I might as well ask you if you have been kissing the Mammoth Circus.”

“I’m going to bed,” said Mabel abruptly. “I’m absolutely fed up with you. I’m sick to death of you. I hate you. And I despise you.”

She went out and slammed the door violently. Four more vases went over, and three pictures fell.

Luke went over to the open window and looked out into the cool night. At the house opposite a girl was singing very beautifully “The End of a Perfect Day.”