His thoughts were interrupted by the sight of Lola approaching, conducted by the inevitable Mr. Byles. She was dressed in a simple black frock with a bunch of red roses at her waist. With a thrill he told himself that they were those he had sent her on the previous day.
"What do you think of me?" she enquired when Mr. Byles had taken a reluctant departure, having assured himself that everything was as it should be.
"Is it permitted to say?" asked Beresford.
"I'm afraid I'm in a mad mood to-night," she cried as she unfolded her napkin.
"And I am the sauce that is served with your madness?" he questioned.
She laughed.
"And you?" she demanded.
"More sober than usual," he replied with a smile.
She made a little moue.
"You see it will preserve the Aristotelean mean," he continued, as he helped himself to hors d'œuvres.
"The Aristotelean what?" she questioned, looking up from a sardine she was dissecting, with great daintiness, he thought.
"The via media."
"Would you mind coming down to my intellectual level?" she asked demurely.
Beresford laughed.
"Well?" she said, "I'm waiting."
"For?"
"You to come down from the classical clouds."
"Shall we say striking the balance," he sug-
