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 presently. Have you any whisky and soda in the house?”

Yess

“Then like a good fellow, Vermont—if you love me.”

Vermont was not sure that he loved him; nevertheless he bustled to prepare the drink, muttering to himself: “Brenton—Digby Brenton. Good Lord!’ They had been at school together, these two; as a matter of fact, Vermont had fagged for him at Eton, and still remembered sundry spontaneous bootings. It had always been a blow first with Brenton.

“Mad Brenton” he was called as a boy, and the appellation stuck to him through life. If rumour were to be credited he had done his best to sustain his early reputation.

He drank the whisky and soda with much relish, seeming to gain strength thereby. Then: he looked round the room with a quizzing smile.

“Ts this your crib?”

“For the time being.”

“What a God-forsaken spot! But if I remember you always cultivated solitude and the muses. Still at it?”