They were at the corner of Jermyn Street. Mrs. Viveash halted and delivered her ultimatum, the more impressive for being spoken in that expiring voice of one who says _in articulo_ the final and supremely important things. “We lunch at Verrey’s, Theodore, or I shall never, never speak to you again.” “But be reasonable, Myra,” he implored. If only he’d told her that he had a business appointment.... Imbecile, to have dropped those stupid hints—in that tone! “I prefer not to be,” said Mrs. Viveash. Gumbril made a gesture of despair and was silent. He thought of Emily in her native quiet among the flowers; in a cottage altogether too cottagey, with honeysuckles and red ramblers and hollyhocks—though, on second thoughts, none of them would be blooming yet, would they?—happily, in white muslin, extracting from the cottage piano the easier sections of the Arietta. A little absurd, perhaps, when you considered her like that; but exquisite, but adorable, but pure of heart and flawless in her bright pellucid integrity, complete as a crystal in its faceted perfection. She would be waiting for him, expecting him; and they would walk through the twiddly lanes—or perhaps there would be a governess cart for hire, with a fat pony like a tub on legs to pull it—they would look for flowers in the woods and perhaps he would still remember what sort of noise a whitethroat makes; or even if he didn’t remember, he could always magisterially say he did. “That’s a whitethroat, Emily. Do you hear? The one that goes ‘Tweedly, weedly, weedledy dee.’” “I’m waiting,” said Mrs. Viveash. “Patiently, however.” Gumbril looked at her and found her smiling like a tragic mask. After all, he reflected, Emily would still be there if he went down to-morrow. It would be stupid to quarrel with Myra about something that was really, when he came to think of it, not of enormous importance. It was stupid to quarrel with any one about anything; and with Myra and about this, particularly so. In this white dress patterned with flowing arabesques of black she looked, he thought, more than ever enchanting. There had been times in the past.... The past leads on to the present.... No; but in any case she was excellent company. “Well,” he said, sighing decisively, “let’s go and send my wire.” Mrs. Viveash made no comment, and traversing Jermyn Street they walked up the narrow passage under the lee of Wren’s bald barn of St. James’s, to the post office. “I shall pretext a catastrophe,” said Gumbril, as they entered; and going to the telegraph desk he wrote: “Slight accident on way to station not serious at all but a little indisposed come same train to-morrow.” He addressed the form and handed it in. “A little what?” asked the young lady behind the bars, as she read it through, prodding each successive word with the tip of her blunt pencil.