“Concrete?” said I. “Physical. Theirs on you will be mental. They’ll get off first. After they’ve influenced you, you start in on them. I should think——” Mercifully at that moment Berwick Perowne was announced. As he was straight from Moscow, the conjuring went by the board. I was rather interested to see him—I’d heard so much. He’ld certainly do any staff credit—a dazzling A.D.C. The face of a careless angel, a tongue of silver, the impudence of the Fiend. His news left Jo and me gasping. He gave it as though he were describing a game of Bridge. After a while we made our excuses and left. . . . All the way home in the taxi Jo chattered about ‘the prophecy,’ till at last I told her that it meant that a nicer man than I was going to steal her away, and I was going to follow and break his back. . . . She put her arms round my neck. Bugle was waiting for us when we got in: he’s a good little dog: he’s never really happy unless we’re both of us there. Sitting by the fire in the study, we discussed my resignation. Now that the War’s past, I should have been at home a good deal—actually at home with Jo. But we really cannot throw away twelve hundred and fifty a year. Not that I shall have that yet—I start at fifteen hundred: but in a year or two . . . with luck . . . And it means so much. It means a car, frocks, flowers about the house. . . . Jo’s eyes were like stars. I think she is the most beautiful thing I ever saw. But I digress. ‘The Office’ rang up in the morning and wanted me down at once. I answered the telephone in my pyjamas. Jo was twittering with excitement. I found her, wrapped in a towel, hanging over the banisters, wild to know if it was ‘the prophecy.’ I tried to scold her, but she refused to be rebuked—as it happens, with good reason. _The prophecy, or some of it, has been fulfilled._ At ‘The Office’ I was introduced to Sir George ——, a nervous little man with a short leg. He used to be in the game, and came back to help at ‘The Office’ during the War. Shortly, it is his wish to be permitted to supplement my old pay so that it reaches my figure—two thousand seven fifty a year. He considers it would be a pity for ‘The Office’ to lose my services: he understands my position: and, provided I agree to remain, he will hand the Treasury sufficient War Stock to pay twelve fifty a year, such money to be paid to me quarterly while I do my job and, when I retire, to be added to my pension. . . . I tried my best to thank him, but I kept seeing the stars in Jo’s dear eyes. . . .