"I'm going North to-night," said Carey.
"Are you?"
"Yes. If you don't mind I'll sit down."
Robin said nothing. Carey threw himself into an armchair.
"Going to see the mater. A funny thing--but she's always glad to see me."
"Why not?"
"Mothers have a knack that way. Lucky for sons like me."
There was intense bitterness in his voice, but there was a sound of
tenderness too. Robin shut the door but did not sit down.
"Are you going to be in the country long?"
"Don't know. What time did you leave Arkell House last night?"
"Not till after Lady Holme left."
"Oh!"
He was silent for a moment, biting his red moustache.
"Were you in the hall after the last lancers?"
"No."
"You weren't?"
He spoke quickly, with a sort of relief, hesitated then added
sardonically:
"But of course you know--and much worse than the worst. The art of
conversation isn't dead yet, whatever the--perhaps you saw me being got
out?"
"No, I didn't."
"But you do know?"
"Naturally."
"I say, I wish you'd let me have--"
He checked himself abruptly, and muttered:
"Good God! What a brute I am."
He sprang up and walked about the room. Presently he stopped in front of
the statuette of the "/Danseuse de Tunisie/."
"Is it the woman that does it all, or the fan?" he said. "I don't know.
Sometimes I think it's one, and sometimes the other. Without the fan
there's purity, what's meant from the beginning--"
"By whom?" said Robin.
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