“Do I look my age?” demanded Rollison.

“But you are not old, sir!”

“That is a contradiction,” stated Rollison.

“In no way, sir. When I suggested that your—ah-maturer years made it possible for you to be content without any—ah—romantic interludes, I did not mean that you were—ah—”

“Incapable,” said Rollison drily. “Or even impotent.”

“Indeed no, sir!”

“Jolly.”

“Sir.”

“Since you are in a mood to be devastatingly honest and I am in a mood to listen, tell me this : am I less attractive to women than I was? Or are women less attractive to me?”

Jolly hesitated, considered, then moved forward to pour out the coffee. As he handed a cup to Rollison he spoke again, as one stepping on very delicate ground. “I think the truth is, sir, that you are more selective than in times past.”

“Ah. More choosey, you mean.”

“That is a more colloquial way of putting it, sir.”

“Yes, I suppose so. I had imagined that I had always been reasonably selective.”

“As indeed you have, sir,” said Jolly, earnestly. “I am not expressing myself at all well this morning. What I mean is—” again he hesitated, and actually glanced upward as if hoping desperately for a celestial interruption. “What I mean is—”

“What do you mean?” demanded Rollison, obviously not disposed to let his man off the hook. His expression was one of mild amusement, and his well-shaped lips were sardonically curved. He was handsome, with dark hair showing only a few flecks of grey; dark, well-marked eyebrows, dark eyelashes which threw the brilliance of his grey eyes into impressive relief. He was sitting back, relaxed, without a spare ounce of flesh, and obviously as fit as a fiiddle. The tan of a brief holiday in the Swiss Alps still bronzed his face. He looked as if, when standing, he would be both tall and lean; as in fact, he was.

“What I mean, sir,” went on Jolly with great precision, “is that you have always demanded beauty and a quick wit, but recently you have not found these alone as satisfying as they once were.”