Drewitt turned and looked at him, but made no comment.
"There's too much incident, too much excitement, too many adventures for a man accustomed to the quiet of town life," continued Beresford. "If you really want to be alone you must be in London."
"I believe that has been said before," remarked Drewitt drily, as they climbed the steps of the Diplomatic Club and passed into the smoking room.
With a sigh Drewitt threw himself into a chair.
"Where are you staying?" he enquired.
"At the Ritz-Carlton."
Drewitt merely raised his eyebrows and, beckoning a waiter, ordered whiskies-and-sodas.
"What's she like?" With great deliberation he proceeded to light a cigarette. Presently he raised his eyes and looked enquiringly at Beresford over the flame.
"You impute everything to a wrong motive" began Beresford.
"A woman is not a motive, my dear Richard," interrupted Drewitt; "she's an imaginative extravagance of Nature, like a mushroom, or the aurora borealis."
"You expect," continued Beresford, ignoring the interruption, "that every man is capable of making an ass of himself about some woman and, naturally, you are never surprised when he does."
"The surprise generally comes when I meet the woman," was the dry retort. "What does the Aunt say?"
