He would not let her see him off from the station; and she lay in bed, watching him as he laced his high-boots, straightened his spur-chains, pinned khaki collar.

“Anyway, old thing,” he said, “we’ve had a great time together. And in four or five months, well make another week of it....”

He went down to his early breakfast; came back again; kissed her good-bye.

“Take care of yourself, Peter,” she smiled at him. And again he answered “Trust me, old thing....”

But as she listened to the taxi purring down Harley Street, to the slam of the closing front-door, it seemed to Patricia as though there were no Power, either heavenly or earthly, in whom a woman of those days might put her trust.