‘You look tired, ma mie. The news from Florence has not brought back your roses. Now, what shall I get for you?’ cried Pouchée, stealing a kind arm round the girl’s shoulder. ‘Thanks to your Italian letter, remember, you have been cheated out of dinner.’ ‘I should like some tea,’ Marjorie answered, plausibly. ‘Tea and a plate of tartines, cut after the fashion that only you, dear Pouchée, understand.’ If the flattery were a trick of war to effect the Frenchwoman’s absence, I hold that, in a moment supreme as this, it was pardonable. Off went Pouchée to the kitchen, unsuspecting to the last of the love story in which she had played a part, and Marjorie, her heart on fire, awaited her fate. For the first two or three minutes all was quiet. Then she heard the impetuous opening of Geoffrey Arbuthnot’s door. Her limbs well-nigh failed her, her spirit sank. Through a few seconds of suspense the past fifteen months seemed to unroll themselves, one by one, before her sight.... At last the salon door opened and closed. Marjorie moved a step forward--she held out a hand that trembled violently. A moment more and strong arms held her close, her blushes were hidden on Geff Arbuthnot’s breast. There was a long space of silence, an interchange of such words, such broken attempts at explanation as pen and ink can ill put into form. Then Geoffrey led his sweetheart into the broader light of lamp and fire. He looked at her tall figure, her altered softened face, with wondering eyes. ‘You have grown several inches, Miss Bartrand. You have become beautiful. Tell me I am not asleep--dreaming, as I have done so often--that I hold your hand. Tell me my good luck is real!’ ‘Don’t talk of good luck yet. I have not lost my Bartrand temper. Plenty of bad times may be in store for both of us.’ ‘And when was this sent to me’ Geoffrey touched his breast-pocket, in token that Marjorie’s ribbon and letter lay there. ‘The address is an enigma. There is a faded look I cannot interpret about the handwriting.’ ‘I left the packet fifteen months ago at your hotel in Guernsey.’ The girl’s face drooped. ‘You ought to have had it on the day after--after my vile temper drove you away from Tintajeux. I wrote ... one word ... as you wished; I sent you the bit of Spanish ribbon for a book-marker. But fortune was against me. I forgot that you and your cousin Gaston had the same initial.’ ‘If Gaston had opened a letter wrongly he would have brought it to me on the spot.’ ‘There was mistake within mistake--at that time poor Dinah’s heart was near to breaking--so she writes me now.’ ‘Dinah! You have heard from Mrs. Arbuthnot? Let me see her explanation.’ ‘I will read a passage or two aloud.’ Marjorie Bartrand drew the Italian letter from her pocket. ‘No. You will let me read every word of it for myself.’ And Geoffrey Arbuthnot took the letter, unfolded, and read it through.