Suum cuique: to the Man belongeth courage in great things, but in affairs of small moment Woman is pre-eminent. Charlie Ellerton was speechless; Dora Bellairs, by a supreme effort, rose on shaking legs and advanced with outstretched hands to meet John Ashforth.

“Mr. Ashforth, I declare! Who would have thought of meeting you here?” she exclaimed; and she added in an almost imperceptible, mysterious whisper, “Hush!”

John at once understood that he was to make no reference to the communications which had resulted in this happy meeting. He expressed a friendly gratification in appropriate words. Dora began to breathe again; everything was passing off well. Suddenly she glanced from John to Mary. Mary stood alone, about three yards from the table, gazing at Charlie. Charlie sat as though paralyzed. He would ruin everything.

“Mr. Ellerton,” she called sharply. Charlie started up, but before he could reach Dora’s side, the latter had turned to Mary and was holding out a friendly hand. Mary responded with alacrity.

“Miss Bellairs, isn’t it? We ought to know one another. I’m so glad to meet you.”

Charlie was by them now.

“And how do you do, Mr. Ellerton?” went on Mary, rivalling Dora in composure. And she also added a barely visible and quite inaudible “Hush!”

“Who are they?” asked Deane in a low voice.

“Their name’s Ashforth,” answered Laing.

“God bless my soul!” exclaimed the General. “I remember him now. We made his acquaintance at Interlaken, but his name had slipped from my memory. And that’s his wife? Fine girl, too. I must speak to him.” And full of kindly intent he bustled off and shook John warmly by the hand.

“My dear Ashforth, delighted to meet you again, and under such delightful conditions, too! Ah, well, it only comes once in a lifetime, does it?—in your case anyhow, I hope. I see Dora has introduced herself. You must present me. When was it?”

Portions of this address puzzled John considerably, but he thought it best to do as he was told.

“Mary,” he said, “let me introduce General Bellairs—Miss Bellairs’s father—to you. General Bell—”

The General interrupted him by addressing Mary with much, effusion.

“Delighted to meet you. Ah, you know our young friend Ellerton? Everybody does, it seems to me. Come, you must join us. Waiter, two more places. Lady Deane, let me introduce Mr. Ashforth. They’re on their——”

He paused. An inarticulate sound had proceeded from Mary’s lips.

“Beg pardon?” said the General.

A pin might have been heard to drop, while Mary, recovering herself, said coldly:

“I think there’s some mistake. I’m not Mrs. Ashforth.”

“Gad, it’s the old ‘un!” burst in a stage whisper from Arthur Laing, who seemed determined that John Ashforth should have a wife.

The General looked to his daughter for an explanation. Dora dared not show the emotion pictured on her face, and her back was towards the party. Charlie Ellerton was staring with a vacant look at the lady who was not Mrs. Ashforth. The worst had happened.

John came to the rescue. With an awkward laugh he said:

“Oh, you—you attribute too much happiness to me. This is Miss Travers. I—I—Her aunt, Miss Bussey, and she have kindly allowed me to join their travelling party. Miss Bussey is at that table,” and he pointed to “the old ‘un.”

Perhaps it was as well that at this moment the pent-up feelings which the situation, and above all the remorseful horror with which Laing was regarding his fictitious lady’s-maid, overcame Roger Deane. He burst into a laugh. After a moment the General followed heartily. Laing was the next, bettering his examples in his poignant mirth. Sir Roger sprang up.

“Come, Miss Travers,” he said, “sit down. Here’s the fellow who gave you your new name. Blame him,” and he indicated Laing, Then he cried, “General, we must have Miss Bussey, too.”

The combined party, however, was not, when fully constituted by the addition of Miss Bussey, a success. Two of its members ate nothing and alternated between gloomy silence and forced gayety; who these were may well be guessed. Mary and John found it difficult to surmount their embarrassment at the contretemps which had attended the introduction, or their perplexity over the cause of it. Laing was on thorns lest his distributions of parts and stations in life should be disclosed. The only bright feature was the congenial feeling which appeared at once to unite Miss Bussey and Sir Roger Deane. They sat together, and, aided by the General’s geniality and Lady Deane’s supramundane calm, carried the meal to a conclusion without an actual breakdown, ending up with a friendly wrangle over the responsibility for the bill. Finally it was on Sir Roger’s proposal that they all agreed to meet at five o’clock and take coffee, or what they would, together at a cafi by the water in the Bois de Boulogne. With this understanding the party broke up.

Dora and Charlie, lagging behind, found themselves alone. They hardly dared to look at one another, lest their composure should fail.

“They’re not married,” said Charlie.

“No.”

“They’ve broken it off!”

“Yes.”

“Because of us.”

“Yes.”

“While we——”

“Yes.”

“Well, in all my life, I never——”

“Oh, do be quiet.”

“What an infernal ass that fellow Laing——”

“Do you think they saw anything?”

“No. I half wish they had.”

“Oh, Mr. Ellerton, what shall we do? They’re still in love with us!”

“Rather. They’ve been waiting for us.”

Dora entered the hotel gates and sank into a chair in the court-yard.

“Well? she asked helplessly; but Charlie had no suggestion to offer.

“How could they?” she broke out indignantly. “How could they break off their marriage at the last moment like that? They—they were as good as married. It’s really hardly—people should know their own minds.”

She caught sight of a rueful smile on Charlie’s face.

“Oh, I know, but it’s different,” she added impatiently. “One expects it of you, but I didn’t expect it of John Ashforth.”

“And of yourself?” he asked softly.

“It’s all your fault, you wicked boy,” she answered.

Charlie sighed heavily.

“We must break it to them,” said he. “Mary will understand; she has such delicacy of feeling that——”

“You’re always praising that girl. I believe you’re in love with her still.”

“Well, you as good as told me I wasn’t fit to black Ashforth’s boots.”

“Anyhow he wouldn’t have—have—have tried to make a girl care for him when he knew she cared for somebody else.”

“Hang it, it seems to me Ashforth isn’t exactly immaculate. Why, in Switzerland——”

“Never mind Switzerland, Mr. Ellerton, please.”

A silence ensued. Then Charlie remarked, with a reproachful glance at Dora’s averted face, “And this is the sequel to Avignon! I shouldn’t have thought a girl could change so in forty-eight hours.”

Dora said nothing. She held her head very high in the air and looked straight in front of her.

“When you gave me that kiss——” resumed Charlie.

Now this form of expression was undoubtedly ambiguous; to give a kiss may mean: 1. What it literally says—to bestow a kiss. 2. To offer one’s self to be kissed. 3. To accept willingly a proffered kiss; and, without much straining of words, 4. Merely to refrain from angry expostulation and a rupture of acquaintance when one is kissed—this last partaking rather of the nature of the ratification of an unauthorized act, and being, in fact, the measure of Dora’s criminality. But the other shades of meaning caught her attention.

“You know it’s untrue; I never did,” she cried angrily. “I told you at the time that no gentleman would have done it.”

“Oh, you mean Ashforth, I suppose? It’s always Ashforth.”

“Well, he wouldn’t.”

“And some girls I know wouldn’t forgive a man on Monday and round on him on Wednesday.”

“Oh, you needn’t trouble to mention names. I know the paragon you’re thinking of!”

They were now at the hotel.

“Going in?” asked Charlie.

“Yes.”

“I suppose we shall go to the Bois together?”

“I shall ask papa or Sir Roger to take me.”

“Then I’ll go with Lady Deane.”

“I don’t mind who you go with, Mr. Ellerton.”

“I’ll take care that you’re annoyed as little as possible by my presence,”

“It doesn’t annoy me.”

“Doesn’t it, D——?”

“I don’t notice it one way or the other.”

“Oh.”

“Good-by for the present, Mr. Ellerton.”

“Good-by, Miss Bellairs; but I ought to thank you.”

“What for?”

“For making it easy to me to do what’s right,” and Charlie turned on his heel and made rapidly for the nearest cafi, where he ordered an absinthe.

Dora went wearily up to her bedroom, and, sitting down, reviewed the recent conversation. She could not make out how, or why, or where they had begun to quarrel. Yet they had certainly not only begun but made very fair progress, considering the time at their disposal. It had all been Charlie’s fault. He must be fond of that girl after all; if so, it was not likely that she would let him see that she minded. Let him go to Mary Travers, if—if he liked that sort of prim creature. She, Dora Bellairs, would not interfere. She would have no difficulty in finding someone who did care for her. Poor John! How happy he looked when he saw her! It was quite touching.

He really looked almost—almost. To her sudden annoyance and alarm she found herself finishing the sentence thus, “almost as Charlie did at Avignon.”

“Oh, he’s worth a thousand of Charlie,” she exclaimed, impatiently.

At half-past four Sir Roger Deane was waiting; in the hall. Presently Dora appeared.

“Where are the others?” she asked.

“Charlie’s having a drink. Your father and Maud aren’t coming. They’re going to rest.”

“Oh, well, we might start.”

“Excuse me, Miss Dora, there’s some powder on your nose.”

“Oh, is there? Thanks.”

“What have you been powdering for?”

“Really, Sir Roger! Besides the sun has ruined my complexion.”

“Oh, the sun,”

“Yes. Don’t be horrid. Do let’s start.”

“But Charlie—”

“I hate riding three in a cab.”

“Oh, and I like riding alone in one, so——”

“No, no. You must come with me. Mr. Ellerton can follow us. He’s always drinking, isn’t he? I dislike it so.”

Sir Roger, with a wink at an unresponsive plaster bust of M. le President, followed her to the door. They had just got into their little victoria when Charlie appeared, cigarette in hand.

“Charlie,” observed Deane, “Miss Bell airs thinks you’ll be more comfortable by yourself than perched on this front seat.”

“Especially as you’re smoking,” added Dora. “Allez, cocher.”

Charlie hailed another vehicle and got in. As he did so he remarked between his teeth, “I’m d——d if I stand it.”