Then— “Where,” said Eleanor in a choking voice, “where do I fall short?” Crispin shifted uneasily. “Don’t let’s go into details,” he said. “It’ll only——” “Please.” “My dear Nell, you are so attractive and you’ve got so many——” “That’ll do,” said Eleanor Cloke. “And now please tell me exactly where I fail.” Crispin hesitated. Then— “Perhaps it’s as well,” he muttered. “You see. . . . Nell, my dear, it’s your walk.” “My _what_?” shrieked Eleanor. “Your walk—carriage, my dear. In repose you’re immense. Standing by the table just now, you were simply it. But when you move—I don’t know what it is, but you, er, you don’t do yourself justice. You’re inclined to . . . to . . .” “Waddle?” said Eleanor mercilessly. “Not exactly waddle, but. . . . Well, perhaps you would call it ‘waddling.’ But it’s nothing to write home about. The trouble is I’m afraid it’s occurred to David.” “What has? My wal—waddle?” “Your walk. I may be wrong, but. . . . Nell, it’s your only blemish, but, as it happens, the one thing David’s noticed ever since I’ve known him was the way a woman walked. When you two said you were engaged, you could have knocked me down. But apparently——” “He happens,” said Eleanor icily, “to have affirmed on more than one occasion that I had the bearing of a queen.” Crispin shrugged his shoulders. “Love is blind,” he said shortly. “But of course I may be wrong. Still, if it isn’t that, I don’t know what it is. If you wash that out, you’re practically flawless,” and with that he leaned back, thrust his cigar between his lips and smoked luxuriously. “What do you mean,” said Eleanor “‘—if it isn’t that’?” Crispin started. Then he rose to his feet and began to pace the room nervously. Eleanor Cloke watched him with smouldering eyes. After two or three turns he stopped in front of her chair. “I said your note was a godsend. Well, so in a way it is. Nell, if you value your happiness, you’d better give David up.” The girl stared. “Thanks very much—why? Are you afraid my waddle will get on his nerves?” “I’m afraid,” said Crispin, “it has.” Eleanor smothered an exclamation. “At least, if it hasn’t,” he added, “then something else has. Nell, I’m grieved to tell you, but he’s looking elsewhere.” “Who to?” Crispin shook his head. “I’ve not the faintest idea. But I’m pretty sure he’s cooling. Now he’s not the man to cool off unless somewhere around there’s another brighter fire. Of course, we—I may be wrong.” “Madge thinks so?” Crispin threw away his cigar, picked up a chair and sat himself down with the table between himself and Eleanor Cloke.