Sin I am free I counte him not a bene,”

he quoted. “There’s a freedom about that, a kind of clean-washedness which is very wholesome; the fresh rain upon one’s face in high places after a room full of hot-house flowers.” He stopped. “Heaven knows why I am talking to you like this,” he said whimsically.

“I don’t fancy,” said Neil calmly, “that you’ve ever been really in love.”

“No?” smiled Peter.

“Of course, you think you have,” went on Neil.

“Indeed?” smiled Peter again.

“Oh, I’m not going to argue with you,” said the other good-humouredly, “only when the time comes that you do love, just do me the favour to remember what I’ve said.”

“‘He is strike out of my bokes clene,’”

quoted Peter again, looking at Neil lazily.

[Pg 19]

[Pg 19]

“There is,” said Neil, “such a thing as invisible ink. There are certain words written with it on the pages of our lives. The pages look uncommonly blank, but should they chance to catch certain heat-rays, the words written upon them will stand out very black and clear.”

“Humph!” said Peter.

“Wait and see,” said Neil.

“All right,” said Peter. And then he got to his feet. He picked up his wallet, bundle, and the hat with the peacock feather. He put it jauntily on his head.

“I must be moving on,” he said.

Neil, too, had risen. He held out the limp book. Peter took it and put it in his pocket.

“Chaucer or you,” he said, “which am I to believe?”

“Believe which you like,” retorted Neil. “Time will bring the proof. I’m glad I met you.” He held out his hand.

Peter took it. “Common politeness,” he said, “should make me echo that sentiment. Truth obliges me to hesitate. Yet frankly I like you. Perhaps you have sufficient acumen to guess at the reason for my hesitation. Well, 

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