If he
has a failing it's for working everything out by cold reason."
"Just what he's doing at this moment," answered Jimmy dryly. "If you
don't like the word 'mad' I'll take it back and substitute 'balmy,'
or anything you like. Madness is a relative term; and I should have
thought that what you call working-everything-out-by-cold-reason was
a form of it. I know jolly well that if I felt myself taken that way
I should go to a doctor about it. And if _you're_ going to practise
it on the subject just now before the committee, I shall leave the
chair and this meeting breaks up in disorder."
"The point is," said I, "that the letter has gone."
"What address?" he asked pouring out the coffee.
"Biarritz, Grand Hotel--Why surely you read it?"--I stared at him,
but he was looking down on the cups. Then of a sudden I understood.
"Jimmy," I said humbly, "I've been an ass."
"Ah," said he, "I'm glad you see it in that light. . . . The
afternoon mail has gone: but there's the night boat. You can't
telegraph, unfortunately. In his state of mind you mustn't warn him.
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