And in Britain, most people lived reasonably well; the super-markets were full, the betting shops were busy and the football fans were about to put away their rattles, their team-colours, their scarves and their woollen hats, for this was the merry month of May.

Spring.

Suddenly Rollison laughed—a low-pitched chuckle of sound reflecting his good humour.

“And it isn’t even love !” he murmured.

As he spoke, the door which led from the domestic quarters of his flat in London’s Mayfair, opened, and Rollison’s man-of-all-work appeared. His name was Jolly. He had served the Toff for so long that he had reached the stage of being more counsellor and friend than servant. There were some who regarded a gentleman’s gentleman in this age of pop and do-it-yourself as an anachronism—as conceivably Jolly was. Indeed, he looked it, a man of medium height and doleful countenance, his sagging jowl hung in dignified abandon over a winged collar and a grey cravat. For the rest, he was dressed with impeccable restraint in a black jacket and striped trousers.

He carried coffee on a silver tray.

“Did you say something, sir?” he asked, putting the tray down on a low table near the chair.

“I said,” said Rollison, “that I am happily out of love, and completely fancy free.”

“If I might say so, a pointer, sir,” remarked Jolly.

“Oh, is it?” Rollison looked surprised. “And to what does it point?”

“It suggests the oncoming of—er—of—er—” Jolly, for once, was suddenly embarrassed and with remarkable presence of mind he moved back. “I think I hear someone knocking, sir. Will you excuse me.” Swift and silent, he reached the door.

“Dolly,” called Rollison sternly.

“Sir?”

“There is no-one knocking. You were going to say that my mood of contentment suggested the final oncoming of maturity, were you not?”

Jolly looked at him judicially. “Well, sir, it is to be expected.”