"After all the hard things you have thought and said of me." There was a pause. She looked down, speaking softly. "Call me by my pet name." He slightly started. But he was not the sort of man to remain long at a loss. As he turned to her and answered, in his voice there was a ring of passionate intensity. "Tell me by what name to call you!" "Call me Angel." "Angel! My angel of love! My angel of all good things!" "Cecil!" Their lips met in a kiss. As they did so, he told himself that if she was Cecil's idea of an angel, she wasn't his. But she was certainly a "oner." He wondered if she had been christened "Angel" Danvers. What a weapon with which to chastise a wife! "Cecil, let us understand each other. You are not trifling with me again?" "Need you ask?" This time he was fairly startled. "I am afraid that after all which has passed between us, I need----" "You do mean to make me your wife?" "Make you my wife? Good heavens! What do you suppose I mean?" "Then you do not believe I cheated?" "Cheated!" "Then you do not believe that man? You don't believe the lies they said of me?" "Never for one single instant." His outspoken denial seemed to take her aback. "Then, if you didn't believe it, why--but never mind! Cecil, it would be useless to pretend to you that I have been the best of women, but I swear that I will be a good wife to you until I die." "My own," he murmured. To himself he said, "There seems to have been a good deal more romance about this little affair of Cecil's than I supposed." Her manner changed. "Let us talk of something else! Let us talk of you. Tell me of yourself, my love!" "Well," said Hubert, the ever-ready, "for the moment I am in rather an awkward predicament." "What is it?" "The fact is"--he looked her straight in the face, and never turned a hair--"my remittances seem to have all gone wrong. I am landed here with empty pockets." She laughed. "Let me be your banker, will you?" "With pleasure." "I'm quite rich, for me. I've got a heap of money in my purse, if I can only find it." She found it, after long seeking. "How much would you like--twenty pounds?" "Thank you." "Should I make it thirty?" "If you could make it thirty." Some bank-notes changed hands. He thrust them into his waistcoat-pocket, telling himself that that was something on account at any rate. "Now, your remittances must make haste and come. Thirty pounds is nothing to you; it is a deal to me. Now _I_ am destitute." She held out her purse for him to see. It still contained a couple of bank-notes and some gold. "I suppose you couldn't manage to spare the rest?" he said. "You greedy thing! I can scarcely believe you are the Cecil Buxton I used to know--he would never have condescended to borrow thirty pounds from me. Do you know, it isn't only that you are nicer, but, somehow, even your manner and your voice seem different."