Mrs. Viveash had turned up towards the northern side of the square and was almost at its north-western corner when, with a thrill of genuine delight, with a sense of the most profound relief she saw a familiar figure, running down the steps of the London Library. “Theodore!” she hallooed faintly but penetratingly, from her inward death-bed. “Gumbril!” She waved her parasol. Gumbril halted, looked round, came smiling to meet her. “How delightful,” he said, “but how unfortunate.” “Why unfortunate?” asked Mrs. Viveash. “Am I of evil omen?” “Unfortunate,” Gumbril explained, “because I’ve got to catch a train and can’t profit by this meeting.” “Ah no, Theodore,” said Mrs. Viveash, “you’re not going to catch a train. You’re going to come and lunch with me. Providence has decreed it. You can’t say no to Providence.” “I must,” Gumbril shook his head. “I’ve said yes to somebody else.” “To whom?” “Ah!” said Gumbril, with a coy and saucy mysteriousness. “And where are you going in your famous train?” “Ah again,” Gumbril answered. “How intolerably tiresome and silly you are!” Mrs. Viveash declared. “One would think you were a sixteen-year-old schoolboy going out for his first assignation with a shop girl. At your age, Gumbril!” She shook her head, smiled agonizingly and with contempt. “Who is she? What sordid pick-up?” “Not sordid in the least,” protested Gumbril. “But decidedly a pick-up. Eh?” A banana-skin was lying, like a bedraggled starfish, in the gutter, just in front of where they were standing. Mrs. Viveash stepped forward and with the point of her parasol lifted it carefully up and offered it to her companion. “_Merci_,” Gumbril bowed. She tossed the skin back again into the gutter. “In any case,” she said, “the young lady can wait while we have luncheon.” Gumbril shook his head. “I’ve made the arrangement,” he said. Emily’s letter was in his pocket. She had taken the loveliest cottage just out of Robertsbridge, in Sussex. Ah, but the loveliest imaginable. For the whole summer. He could come and see her there. He had telegraphed that he would come to-day, this afternoon, by the two o’clock from Charing Cross. Mrs. Viveash took him by the elbow. “Come along,” she said. “There’s a post office in that passage going from Jermyn Street to Piccadilly. You can wire from there your infinite regrets. These things always improve with a little keeping. There will be raptures when you _do_ go to-morrow.” Gumbril allowed himself to be led along. “What an insufferable woman you are,” he said, laughing. “Instead of being grateful to me for asking you to luncheon!” “Oh, I am grateful,” said Gumbril. “And astonished.” He looked at her. Mrs. Viveash smiled and fixed him for a moment with her pale, untroubled eyes.... She said nothing. “Still,” Gumbril went on, “I must be at Charing Cross by two, you know.” “But we’re lunching at Verrey’s.” Gumbril shook his head.