After reading Wilfrid’s note she said to herself blankly: ‘For a love-letter it’s not a love-letter.’ And she said to her mother:

“Wilfrid’s shy of coming, dear. I must go up and talk to him. If I can, I will bring him down with me. If I can’t, I’ll try and arrange for you to see him at Mount Street. He’s lived alone so much that seeing people is a real strain.”

Lady Cherrell’s answer was a sigh, but it meant more to Dinny than words; she took her mother’s hand and said: “Cheer up, Mother dear. It’s something that I’m happy, isn’t it?”

“That would be everything, Dinny.”

Dinny was too conscious of implications in the ‘would be’ to answer.

She walked to the station, reached London at noon, and set out for Cork Street across the Park. The day was fine, the sun shone; spring was established to the full, with lilac and with tulips, young green of plane-tree leaves, songs of birds, and the freshness of the grass. But though she looked in tune, she suffered from presentiment. Why she should feel so, going to a private lunch with her lover, she could not have explained. There could be but few people in all the great town at such an hour of day with prospect before them so closely joyful; but Dinny was not deceived: all was not well—she knew it. Being before her time, she stopped at Mount Street to titivate. According to Blore, Sir Lawrence was out, but his lady in. Dinny left the message that she might be in to tea.

Passing the pleasant smell at the corner of Burlington Street, she had that peculiar feeling, experienced by all at times, of having once been someone else which accounts for so much belief in the transmigration of souls.

‘It only means,’ she thought, ‘something I’ve forgotten. Oh! here’s the turning!’ And her heart began to beat.

She was nearly breathless when Stack opened the door to her. “Lunch will be ready in five minutes, miss.” His eyes, dark, prominent above his jutting nose, and yet reflective, and the curly benevolence of his lips always gave her the impression that he was confessing her before she had anything to confess. He opened the inner door, shut it behind her, and she was in Wilfrid’s arms. That was a complete refutation of presentiment; the longest and most satisfactory moment of the sort she had yet experienced. So long that she was afraid he would not let her go in time. At last she said gently:

“Lunch has already been in a minute, darling, according to Stack.”

“Stack has tact.”

Not until after lunch, when they were alone once more with coffee, did discomfiture come with the suddenness of a thunderclap in a clear sky.

“That business has come out, Dinny.”

What! That? THAT! She mastered the rush of her dismay.

“How?”

“A man called Telfourd Yule has brought the story back with him. They talk of it among the tribes. It’ll be in the bazaars by now, in the London clubs tomorrow. I shall be in Coventry in a few weeks’ time. Nothing can stop a thing like that.”

Without a word Dinny got up, pressed his head against her shoulder, then sat down beside him on the divan.

“I’m afraid you don’t understand,” he said gently.

“That this makes any difference? No, I don’t. The only difference could have been when you told me yourself. That made none. How can this, then?”

“How can I marry you?”

“That sort of thing is only in books, Wilfrid. WE won’t have linkéd misery long drawn out.”

“False heroics are not in my line either; but I don’t think you see yet.”

“I do. Now you can stand up straight again, and those who can’t understand—well, they don’t matter.”

“Then don’t your people matter?”

“Yes, they matter.”

“But you don’t suppose for a minute that they’ll understand?”

“I shall make them.”

“My poor dear!”

It struck her, ominously, how quiet and gentle he was being. He went on:

“I don’t know your people, but if they’re the sort you’ve described—charm ye never so wisely, they won’t rise. They can’t, it’s against their root convictions.”

“They’re fond of me.”

“That will make it all the more impossible for them to see you tied to me.”

Dinny drew away a little and sat with her chin on her hands. Then, without looking at him, she said:

“Do you want to get rid of me, Wilfrid?”

“Dinny!”

“Yes, but do you?”

He drew her into his arms. Presently she said:

“I see. Then if you don’t, you must leave this to me. And anyway it’s no good going to meet trouble. It isn’t known yet in London. We’ll wait until it is. I know you won’t marry me till then, so I MUST wait. After that it will be a clear issue, but you mustn’t be heroic then, Wilfrid, because it’ll hurt me too much—too much.” She clutched him suddenly; and he stayed silent.

With her cheek to his she said quietly:

“Do you want me to be everything to you before you marry me? If so, I can.”

“Dinny!”

“Very forward, isn’t it?”

“No! But we’ll wait. You make me feel too reverent.”

She sighed. “Perhaps it’s best.”

Presently she said: “Will you leave it to me to tell my people everything or not?”

“I will leave anything to you.”

“And if I want you to meet any one of them, will you?”

Wilfrid nodded.

“I won’t ask you to come to Condaford—yet. That’s all settled, then. Now tell me exactly how you heard about this.”

When he had finished, she said reflectively:

“Michael and Uncle Lawrence. That will make it easier. Now, darling, I’m going. It’ll be good for Stack, and I want to think. I can only think when I’m insulated from you.”

“Angel!”

She took his head between her hands. “Don’t be tragic, and I won’t either. Could we go joy-riding on Thursday? Good! Foch at noon! I’m far from an angel, I’m your love.”

She went dizzily down the stairs, now that she was alone, terribly conscious of the ordeal before them. She turned suddenly towards Oxford Street. ‘I’ll go and see Uncle Adrian,’ she thought.

Adrian’s thoughts at his Museum had been troubled of late by the claim of the Gobi desert to be the cradle of Homo Sapiens. The idea had been patented and put on the market, and it bid fair to have its day. He was reflecting on the changeability of anthropological fashions, when Dinny was announced.

“Ah! Dinny! I’ve been in the Gobi desert all the afternoon, and was just thinking of a nice cup of ‘hot’ tea. What do you say?”

“China tea always gives me an ‘ick feeling, Uncle.”

“We don’t go in for so-called luxuries. My duenna here makes good old Dover tea with leaves in it, and we have the homely bun.”

“Perfect! I came to tell you that I’ve given my young heart.”

Adrian stared.

“It’s really rather a terrible tale, so can I take off my hat?”

“My dear,” said Adrian, “take off anything. Have tea first. Here it is.”

While she was having tea Adrian regarded her with a rueful smile, caught, as it were, between his moustache and goatee. Since the tragic Ferse affair she had been more than ever his idea of a niece; and he perceived that she was really troubled.

Lying back in the only easy chair, with her knees crossed and the tips of her fingers pressed together, she looked, he thought, ethereal, as if she might suddenly float, and his eyes rested with comfort on the cap of her chestnut hair. But his face grew perceptibly longer while she was telling him her tale, leaving nothing out. She stopped at last and added:

“Uncle, please don’t look like that!”

“Was I?”

“Yes.”

“Well, Dinny, is it surprising?”

“I want your ‘reaction,’ as they call it, to what he did.” And she looked straight into his eyes.

“My personal reaction? Without knowing him—judgment reserved.”

“If you wouldn’t mind, you SHALL know him.”

Adrian nodded, and she said:

“Tell me the worst. What will the others who don’t know him think and do?”

“What was your own reaction, Dinny?”