A little table covered with a damask cloth was dragged out. Some part of the stiff vigour of the man seemed to have subsided. On Monday Charvill had still not returned, and the major duly presented himself at Mrs Chalkney’s house in Grosvenor Square, thanking his stars that his friend Roding would not be there to spoil sport. ‘You cannot mean General Charvill?’ ‘That old martinet?’ exclaimed Roding. Was it a week ago? No, perhaps more. I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry.
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