_Crispin, my dear, you can add a scalp to your belt. I don’t suppose for a second that you even know you’ve got a belt; but you have, and—it’s pretty full. Any way, mine’s the latest. . . . And that’s the inconvenient truth._ _As for David, I’m dreadfully sorry, because he’s one of the best. I’m afraid he’s silly enough to worship me, and now I’m letting him down. Heavens, how I’m tearing things up! But there you are. . . ._ _You need have no fear. I don’t propose to assault you by word or deed. I’m not going to throw my arms round your neck or tell you I love you better than anything on earth._ But my impulse is to do both. _So now you see, dear, why I never turned up this morning._ _Nell._ * * * * * The royal box at the Imperial was available. So, incidentally, were more than half the stalls. The occasion, however, was demanding privacy. So soon as the curtain rose, Crispin opened the door and ushered Eleanor into the withdrawing-room. “Crispin, why have you done this? You know what I said.” Standing still by the table, the girl made a pathetically beautiful picture. Her simple white frock, her short hair, her little folded hands, her high colour, the piteous droop of her lips—above all, the tense dog-like devotion of her big brown eyes lent her the air of a child that has pleaded guilty and come to judgment. Willoughby steeled his heart. “One can say things,” he said, “which it isn’t easy to write. Sit down, Nell.” He flung himself into a chair and crossed his legs. Then he took out a cigar and lighted it carefully. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “your letter was rather a godsend.” Miss Cloke started. “A—a godsend?” she stammered. “A godsend,” said Crispin comfortably. “But let that pass. I’ll tell you why presently. To tell you the truth, I was always a little afraid of something like this.” Eleanor opened her mouth, shut it, hesitated and then sat down. “I couldn’t very well say so, but when Madge first suggested that we should hunt in pairs I thought it was playing with fire. You see, as you hint in your letter, I—well, I’ve had some, Nell. It’s a difficult thing to say, but . . .” The sentence slid into an apologetic snigger. “You’re rather—rather popular?” said Eleanor, using an odd, strained tone. “Exactly. Heaven knows why, but you wouldn’t believe the number of, er, applications I’ve had in the last five years.” Eleanor’s eyes flashed. “What fools women are,” she said. “And men,” said Crispin, with a generous air. “And men—often enough. In the present case, I wasn’t afraid for myself because, though you’re awfully attractive, Nell, I’m—I’m funny like that.” He laughed self-consciously, uncrossing and recrossing his legs. “You know, I’ve got one simply appalling fault.” “One—yes?” “Well, I’m frightfully critical—particular.” There was a frozen silence.