Early the next morning old Mrs. Wick, who also had been spending the night in town with the friends where her children were staying, was gratified, while she was still in bed, by a visit from her son, who burst into the room apparently more than delighted with himself and the way his particular world was wagging.

"A most beautiful party, mother," he exclaimed, wrapping himself up in her eiderdown, for his pyjamas were old, and worn, and chilly. "And the wretch looked lovelier than ever."

"I hope you aren't going to backslide, Oliver," she said severely, taking her spectacles out of their old case and putting them on so that she might look at him over their tops.

"Oh, dear no, but I don't mind owning to you, mother, that if it wasn't for Dorothy, I might be in danger! She used to be a fairy princess, but now she's a princess of ideal royalty. Such a beautiful gown—worth, I'm sure, twenty-five guineas, and a little string of lovely pearls—his gift, and the big ruby. I shall never," he added thoughtfully, "be able to dress poor Dorothy like that."

His mother regarded him suspiciously.

"Oh, go on," she said, "with your Dorothy."

He rose, and did a few steps of the "Bacchanal À la Mordkin," whistling the music through his teeth. "Speak not, oh aged one," he then cried, striking an attitude, "with disrespect of the moon-faced and altogether irreproachable Dorothy."

Mrs. Wick shook her head. "I'm really sorry for you, Oliver," she said. "You're so silly, and as to your Dorothy Perkins, I believe her name's Harris."

He grinned. "Well, perhaps it is. After all, there's very little difference between Perkins and Harris. And it's done the trick. Oh, mother, you should have seen me! I was an absolute gem of half-shamefaced love-sickness."

"I don't see why you had to tell all that rubbish to Jenny and me," the old woman protested, a little offended, rubbing her nose with her thumb.

"But of course I had to! Jenny's seeing that soft idiot of a Paul every day, and would be sure to give it away." He chuckled. "I saw her whispering it as a great secret to the old lady and she was so surprised she never ate a bit of dinner—it was a good dinner, too."

"You're a rascal," his mother declared comfortably, "and you deserve to have her marry twenty old gentlemen."

He sat down, his face suddenly grave.

"Ah no, mother. All's fair in love and war. I haven't yet made up my mind which of the two this is, but it's one. She's a pig-headed little brute, my lovely love is, and as obstinate as a mule. She's made up her mind to marry this man and be rich and comfortable, and I don't think anything on earth could have stopped her, except——" he grinned wickedly, "just this—jealousy. She nearly died with jealousy before my eyes. Ah, if you could have heard her! 'Please tell us more about the Perkins family,'" he mimicked, "and her little chin went further and further in the air. She hated me like hell!—but, oh, she loved me!"

A maid knocked at the door and brought in a little round tray with a cup of tea on it.

"Your tea's in your room, sir," she said. And then he sent her to bring it to him.

"I want you to go and see them, mother. You aren't to go and tell Jenny, mind you, that—that her name's Harris, but I want you to go to 'Happy House'—what a name for it, by the way!—and tell them all sorts of things about the Perkins. Don't forget that they live at Chiswick, and that the old man's an unsuccessful artist—miniatures," he added thoughtfully, "is his line, and Mrs. Perkins is an invalid.

"Yes, I know. You told us that. What's the matter with her? Heart disease, I suppose."

"Not at all. Stomach. She never digests anything except—what do you call it—koumiss. Yes, she lives on koumiss."

"When are you going away, Oliver?" the old lady asked presently, between two sips of what is to Britons closer to nectar than any other liquid on earth.

"Either to-night or to-morrow. And oh, I forgot, don't say anything to them—the 'Happy House' people, I mean—about me and my doings."

"Why, don't they know about Sparks?"

"Nope. They don't know anything about what has been happening lately. They think I'm still the penniless reporter. That's very important, too. It's the penniless reporter Miss Minx has got to propose to, not the latest and favourite discovery of the Great Chief."

"I don't think that's quite fair," his mother said. "After all, it's a great deal to expect any girl to marry a young man who is penniless as well as a nobody."

"But I'm not a nobody, and I'm going to be a very big somebody, and she ought to know that I shall be a success. Did the girl think," he added angrily, waving his arm, "that I would let her starve, or send her on the stage to keep me? No. She ought to have understood, and now she's got to be punished."

She felt, this wise and clever old hen, that this hatchling of hers was not even an ordinary barnyard duck, that he was a wild, alien bird, capable of almost any flight.

"Well, my dear, your description of Dorothy Perkins has rather made my mouth water," she declared, as he rose and took a look out of the passage to see if he could nip back unobserved to his room (he had forgotten to bring his dressing-gown). "Such a lovable, home-keeping, devoted daughter you made her!"

"Exactly. Where I was canniest though," he returned, "was when I made her perfectly lovely as well. That little brute would never believe in a plain girl."

"But where did you get the photograph? It really is exceptionally lovely."

"I bought her at a photographers in Birmingham, when I was there the week before last. I had to take the man out to lunch to persuade him to sell it. She's an Irish girl—was governess to some rich Jew in Edgbaston, and she married a vet. in the army, and has gone to Egypt, so it's as safe as a church. Now mind, mother," he bent over and kissed her, and gave her a little hug, "mind you don't give it away to Jenny. I shall be back in about a week, and you must keep the flag flying for me while I'm away."

"All right, dear, I will. I don't like telling lies, but I do it very well when I want to. Any brothers and sisters—the Perkins's, I mean?"

"No. Only child. I'm going to lunch to-day," he said, "with some of our other editors—ahem! I see myself being very chummy with the editor of the English Gentleman. Oh, Lord!"

"Yes, dear. Wait a minute, Olly. Just suppose," his mother said, looking at him seriously over her glasses, "just suppose that things did go wrong, and that after all she married Sir John Barclay."

He stood still, put his hand on the door, an almost grotesque figure in his faded pink and white striped flannel pyjamas.

"I don't know," he said slowly. "It would be pretty bad, mother; worse than you think." After a pause he shook his head and opened the door wide. "It isn't going to happen," he said, "and I'm not going to weaken myself by looking at the bad side of things." Then he went out and she heard his door close.

An hour later, as Oliver went downstairs to breakfast, the telephone bell rang and, as he was expecting a call from the office, he answered it. The thing buzzed for a minute and then he heard a voice say, "Is—is that Mr. Catherwood's house?"

Putting his hand over the receiver and turning his head well away, the young man answered in a loud and fervid whisper, "Yes, you blessed lamb, you little darling devil, it is Mr. Catherwood's house!" Then he took his hand away and said in an affected voice, "Yes, moddom."

"I have tried three Catherwoods in the book," continued the voice, struggling witty nervous hesitation. "I don't know the Christian name of the one I am looking for, but is there a Mr. Wick staying there?"

"Yes, moddom."

"Will you please call him to the phone. Tell him it's Miss Griselda—I mean Miss Walbridge—Bridge—B-r-i-d-g-e."

Dancing with joy, his voice perfectly steady, he pretended to misunderstand her. "Miss Burbridge, moddom?"

"No, no—oh," and a little troubled sigh chased the laughter from his face.

"I'll call him," he said, almost forgetting himself and adding "moddom" spasmodically. Then after a moment he spoke in his own voice. "Hallo, what is it? Is it you, Grisel?"

"Yes, oh Oliver, I have had such a time getting you. Listen, we're in awful trouble. Guy's dying in Paris and they have telegraphed for mother to come. The telegram came late last night. She's never been out of England in her life and hasn't the slightest idea how to travel and—and Paul won't be able to go; he couldn't get a pass now the Peace Conference is on—a friend of his tried last week in almost the same circumstances, and he couldn't——"

"I know, I know."

"Mother wants you to come round and tell her about things. Paul will go to the Foreign Office for her, but she knows you know Paris well, and then you can tell her about getting there—trains, and so on, on the other side of the channel. Will you come?"

He came perilously near forgetting the Perkins's at that moment.

"I'll come at once. Perhaps you'll give me some breakfast?"

"Oh, yes, anything. Do come."

Then he added, "What a pity Sir John isn't here. He would have been a great comfort to you now."

"Yes," vaguely, "wouldn't he? Oh, we're all so frightened about Guy."

"What's the matter with him, do you know?" he asked, as Mr. Catherwood came downstairs and nodded to him through the banisters. Grisel explained that it was pneumonia following on "flu," and he heard her blow her poor little nose.

Promising to come round at once, he went and explained to his host, and ten minutes later jumped out of his taxi and ran up the steps of "Happy House."

Grisel and Mrs. Walbridge were at breakfast, but Paul had hurried off straight to the house of some minor Foreign Office official whom he happened to know. Mrs. Walbridge already had her hat on, he noticed, and anything more helpless and pathetic than her haggard, tear-stained, bewildered face Oliver thought he had never seen in his life. She kissed him absent-mindedly as if he had been a son, and he sat down and Grisel plied him with food.

Grisel, who had been crying (for she and Guy were nearly of an age and had always been fond of each other), said, "You never saw him—he is such a dear! Oh, it's too cruel to have fought all through the war, and now——"

"Hush, hush," he said, patting her wrist with a fine imitation of brotherly detachment, "give the poor boy a chance. Who sent the telegram?"

"A nurse."

"H'm. Where is he?"

"He's at a private hospital. The telegram's in mother's bag."

As she spoke, the maid brought in the letters, and Grisel looked through them listlessly. One, addressed in firm, bold writing to herself, Wick knew instinctively must come from Sir John. There was only one for Mrs. Walbridge, and as Grisel handed it to her mother she said:

"Don't open it, dear. I'm sure it's only a bill." Mrs. Walbridge did not even look at it.

"What time does the train start," she asked impatiently. "Oliver, you must help me. I've never been out of England, and I can't speak French."

Grisel opened her letter and read it through indifferently. "John will be back to-morrow night."

"Oh, then you'll be all right, darling," Mrs. Walbridge returned. "You'd better go and stay with Hermy. Or would you rather have Miss Wick come and stay with you here?"

"I don't want anyone to come and stay with me, and I don't want to go to Hermy's. I shall stay here, where I belong. Oh, mother, mother, if only we knew—if only we knew."

She bent down over the table and burst into tears, crying into her poor little handkerchief, that Wick saw had already received more than its share of moisture. He took a nice clean handkerchief from his own pocket, and gave it to her.

"Take this," he said kindly. "It's got some Florida water on it too."

She took it, between a laugh and a moan, and buried her face in its happy folds. Then he took out a notebook and his famous fountain pen, and began to scribble.

"Are you writing notes down for me?" Mrs. Walbridge asked. "Put down all the little things. Remember that I know absolutely nothing about travel. Oh, if only Paul could have gone with me."

He noticed that neither of them had mentioned, or apparently so much as given a thought to the absent husband and father.

"Paul couldn't get a permit, as you said on the telephone. Things have tightened up worse than ever now that the Peace Conference has really begun."

Mrs. Walbridge nodded. "I know."

He rose and put his pen in his pocket. "I must be off now," he said. "I've several things to do. Can you arrange to go by the one-thirty train?"

"Yes. Paul rang up this Mr. White, and he said he would manage to pull it through."

"Good." The young man went to the desolate little woman and put his hand on her shoulder. "Cheer up, Mrs. Walbridge," he said. "Lots of people pull through pneumonia, and I believe Guy's going to. I have a kind of feeling that he is."

She smiled at him, a little consoled, as one often is by just such foolish hopefulness.

"If only there wasn't that Conference," she said, beautifully disregarding the world's interests, "then Paul could come with me."

"Well, Paul can't, but—now, listen to me—I can, and I'm going to."

She stared at him. "To the station, you mean?"

"No, I don't. I mean to Paris. Now you mustn't keep me. I've got a thousand things to do, but I'll be here in a taxi at twelve o'clock. Shall I get the tickets?"

"Oh, yes, do. Oh, how good you are!" In her relief and gratitude she leant her head against his shoulder and cried a little. Grisel looked on, very pale and tense. "Can—can you leave Miss Perkins?" she asked forlornly.

For a moment he trembled on the brink of abject confession. Then he girded up his loins.

"Oh, yes," he said. "She'll quite understand. Very understanding girl. I—I'll ring her up from the office."

"If—if you'd like to ring her up from here"—Grisel's voice shook a little, and he bent his face over Mrs. Walbridge's jaded hat to hide a smile of triumph that he could not repress—"mother and I will be upstairs in my room—with the door shut."

"No, thanks. I've got to get to the office anyhow, and I'll ring her up from there."