Fulke emptied his glass. “If I find it,” he said, “will you marry me?” Miss Willow started. This was not according to plan. For a moment she thought very fast. Then— “You’re too young, dear,” she said gently. “You shall take me about, I promise—until I’m engaged again. And I’ll be awfully nice. But I couldn’t marry you, George.” “Then where,” said George slowly, “where do I come in?” There was a pregnant silence. At length— “I thought,” said Julia coldly, “that I was your star.” “You told me to come down to earth,” said Fulke doggedly. “You called yourself my knight.” “You told me to dismount,” was the disconcerting reply. “You said you loved me,” said Julia. “So I do. But I’ve had some. When you got engaged to Hubert, it broke me up. And now I’m wise, Julia. I’m not going through it again.” “D’you mean you won’t help me?” cried Julia. “I’ll go to Scotland Yard.” There was another silence. “But, George darling,” purred Julia, “you don’t understand. Marriage is merely a form—a worldly ceremony. Sooner or later every girl has to take her place. It’s a cruel law, but then Convention is cruel—where girls are concerned. And so I’ve got to conform. But that doesn’t mean that I want to. My heart will always be in your care.” “Nothing doing,” said Fulke shortly. “You mightn’t think it, but I’ve already got Sarah Pardoner’s and Nell Herrick’s. I reminded Sarah of that about six weeks ago, but all she said was that she was glad it had a good home: and when I told Nell she only shrieked with laughter and said that if it wasn’t claimed soon I’d better sell it to defray expenses.” “Of course, you’ve changed,” said Julia shakily. “You’ve become commercial. I used to think you were the one man I knew who wasn’t out for himself.” “Nor I was—once. But it’s worn off. You’ve no idea of the dirty work I’ve done—all women’s, of course. And often enough before I was through they’ve forgotten they asked me to do it. As for being grateful . . .” He let the sentence go and struck a match with great violence. “Look at Madrigal Chichele,” he added. “What about Madrigal?” “She told me she was tied up for money and wanted to raffle her Rolls, and would I sell the tickets, as it was awkward for her? Well, I went to no end of trouble. Got the car photographed and went all over the place selling tickets at a quid a time. I touched people all over the Continent—complete strangers. Once a week I wrote to Madrigal to say how I was getting on. One day I ran into her in Bond Street. ‘Oh,’ says she, ‘I’ve been meaning to write to you, George. I’ve sold the car.’” “What did you say?” said Julia, struggling with laughter. “I don’t know what I said,” said George wearily. “I know I damned near died there and then. I tried to explain it was fraud: but she said that was all rot, and that it often happened, and that all I had to do was to give the money back.” “How—how many tickets had you sold?” said Julia tearfully.