“Certainly, miss.”

She gave Wilfrid’s number.

“Is that Stack? Miss Cherrell speaking… Would you do me a little favour? My father is going to see Mr. Desert today, General Sir Conway Cherrell; I don’t know at what time, but I want to come myself while he’s there… Could you ring me up here as soon as he arrives? I’ll wait in… Thank you so very much… Is Mr. Desert well?… Don’t tell him or my father, please, that I’m coming. Thank you ever so!”

‘Now,’ she thought, ‘unless I’ve misread Dad! There’s a picture gallery opposite, I shall be able to see him leave from the window of it.’

No call came before lunch, which she had with her aunt.

“Your uncle has seen Jack Muskham,” said Lady Mont, in the middle of lunch; “Royston, you know; and he brought back the other one, just like a monkey—they won’t say anything. But Michael says he mustn’t, Dinny.”

“Mustn’t what, Aunt Em?”

“Publish that poem.”

“Oh! but he will.”

“Why? Is it good?”

“The best he has ever written.”

“So unnecessary.”

“Wilfrid isn’t ashamed, Aunt Em.”

“Such a bore for you, I do think. I suppose one of those companionable marriages wouldn’t do, would it?”

“I’ve offered it, dear.”

“I’m surprised at you, Dinny.”

“He didn’t accept it.”

“Thank God! I should hate you to get into the papers.

“Not more than I should myself, Auntie.”

“Fleur got into the papers, libellin’.”

“I remember.”

“What’s that thing that comes back and hits you by mistake?”

“A boomerang?”

“I knew it was Australian. Why do they have an accent like that?”

“Really I don’t know, darling.”

“And marsupials? Blore, Miss Dinny’s glass.”

“No more, thank you, Aunt Em. And may I get down?”

“Let’s both get down”; and, getting up, Lady Mont regarded her niece with her head on one side. “Deep breathin’ and carrots to cool the blood. Why Gulf Stream, Dinny? What gulf is that?”

“Mexico, dear.”

“The eels come from there, I was readin’. Are you goin’ out?”

“I’m waiting for a ‘phone call.”

“When they say tr-r-roubled, it hurts my teeth. Nice girls, I’m sure. Coffee?”

“Yes, PLEASE!”

“It does. One comes together like a puddin’ after it.”

Dinny thought: ‘Aunt Em always sees more than one thinks.’

“Bein’ in love,” continued Lady Mont, “is worse in the country– there’s the cuckoo. They don’t have it in America, somebody said. Perhaps they don’t fall in love there. Your Uncle’ll know. He came back with a story about a poppa at Nooport. But that was years and years ago. I feel other people’s insides,” continued her aunt, uncannily. “Where’s your father gone?”

“To his Club.”

“Did you tell him, Dinny?”

“Yes.”

“You’re his favourite.”

“Oh, no! Clare is.”

“Fiddle!”

“Did the course of your love run smooth, Aunt Em?”

“I had a good figure,” replied her aunt; “too much, perhaps; we had then. Lawrence was my first.”

“Really?”

“Except for choir-boys and our groom, and a soldier or two. There was a little captain with a black moustache. Inconsiderate, when one’s fourteen.”

“I suppose your ‘wooing’ was very decorous?”

“No; your uncle was passionate. ‘Ninety-one. There’d been no rain for thirty years.”

“No such rain?”

“No! No rain at all—I forget where. There’s the telephone!”

Dinny reached the ‘phone just in front of the butler.

“It’ll be for me, Blore, thank you.”

She took up the receiver with a shaking hand.

“Yes?… I see… thank you, Stack… thank you very much… Will you get me a taxi, Blore?”

She directed the taxi to the gallery opposite Wilfrid’s rooms, bought a catalogue, and went upstairs to the window. Here, under pretext of minutely examining Number 35, called ‘Rhythm,’ a misnomer so far as she could see, she kept watch on the door opposite. Her father could not already have left Wilfrid, for it was only seven minutes since the telephone call. Very soon, however, she saw him issuing from the door, and watched him down the street. His head was bent, and he shook it once or twice; she could not see his face, but she could picture its expression.

‘Gnawing his moustache,’ she thought; ‘poor lamb!’

The moment he rounded the corner she ran down, slipped across the street and up the first flight. Outside Wilfrid’s door she stood with her hand raised to the bell. Then she rang.

“Am I too late, Stack?”

“The General’s just gone, Miss.”

“Oh! May I see Mr. Desert? Don’t announce me.”

“No, miss,” said Stack. Had she ever seen eyes more full of understanding?

Taking a deep breath, she opened the door. Wilfrid was standing at the hearth with his head bent down on his folded arms. She stole silently up, waiting for him to realise her presence.

Suddenly he threw his head up, and saw her.

“Darling!” said Dinny, “so sorry for startling you!” And she tilted her head, with lips a little parted and throat exposed, watching the struggle on his face.

He succumbed and kissed her.

“Dinny, your father—”

“I know. I saw him go. ‘Mr. Desert, I believe! My daughter has told me of an engagement, and—er—your position. I—er—have come about that. You have—er—considered what will happen when your– er—escapade out there becomes—er—known. My daughter is of age, she can please herself, but we are all extremely fond of her, and I think you will agree that in the face of such a—er—scandal it would be wholly wrong on your part—er—to consider yourself engaged to her at present.”

“Almost exact.”

“And you answered?”

“That I’d think it over. He’s perfectly right.”

“He is perfectly wrong. I have told you before, ‘Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds.’ Michael thinks you ought not to publish The Leopard.”

“I must. I want it off my chest. When I’m not with you I’m hardly sane.”

“I know! But, darling, those two are not going to say anything; need it ever come out? Things that don’t come out quickly often don’t come out at all. Why go to meet trouble?”

“It isn’t that. It’s some damned fear in me that I WAS yellow. I want the whole thing out. Then, yellow or not, I can hold my head up. Don’t you see, Dinny?”

She did see. The look on his face was enough. ‘It’s my business,’ she thought, ‘to feel as he does, whatever I think; only so can I help him; perhaps only so can I keep him.’

“I understand, perfectly. Michael’s wrong. We’ll face the music, and our heads shall be ‘bloody but unbowed.’ But we won’t be ‘captains of our souls,’ whatever happens.”

And, having got him to smile, she drew him down beside her. After that long close silence, she opened her eyes with the slow look all women know how to give.

“To-morrow is Thursday, Wilfrid. Will you mind if we drop in on Uncle Adrian on the way home? He’s on our side. And about our engagement, we can say we aren’t engaged, and BE all the same. Good-bye, my love!”

Down in the vestibule by the front door as she was opening it, Stack’s voice said:

“Excuse me, miss.”

“Yes?”

“I’ve been with Mr. Desert a long time, and I was thinking. You’re engaged to him, if I don’t mistake, miss?”

“Yes and no, Stack. I hope to marry him, however.”

“Quite, miss. And a good thing, too, if you’ll excuse me. Mr. Desert is a sudden gentleman, and I was thinking if we were in leeaison, as you might say, it’d be for his good.”

“I quite agree; that’s why I rang you up this morning.”

“I’ve seen many young ladies in my time, but never one I’d rather he married, miss, which is why I’ve taken the liberty.”

Dinny held out her hand. “I’m terribly glad you did; it’s just what I wanted; because things are difficult, and going to be more so, I’m afraid.”

Having polished his hand, Stack took hers, and they exchanged a rather convulsive squeeze.

“I know there’s something on his mind,” he said. “That’s not my business. But I have known him to take very sudden decisions. And if you were to give me your telephone numbers, miss, I might be of service to you both.”