The man was thirty-six, quiet, tall, good-looking. You would not have written him down as overborne. His brown eyes were mild, certainly, but his mouth was firm and his carriage dignified. He was easy-going and regarded the Line of Least Resistance as the Rock of Ages. Such confidence had proved fatal. Long ago the Rock had become a straw, but he clung to it desperately. That the torrent was but breast-high he did not appear to perceive. Possibly he was fascinated. There was, certainly, much of the python about his lady. The probability is that he was afraid—had not the moral courage to throw off the yoke. One might have thought that the instinct of self-preservation would have hounded him out of his hell. But the instinct was always stillborn. Her careless, rampant personality scorched it in embryo. It was a bad case. Peregrine descended listlessly to the cool hall. The Carey Belows had only arrived at Biarritz the night before, and had been due to leave in ten days’ time: but, as we have seen, the date of the Domino Ball had altered everything. For the second time in three weeks their passages to New York were to be cancelled, and fresh arrangements made. Hotels, Banks, Solicitors would have to be told. Policies of Assurance would have to be reindorsed. . . . Peregrine had learned to leave nothing to chance. It was not good enough. The porter was previsionally urbane. “A gar for thee gough? Certainly, sir. Do you wand it at once?” “No, but I want one ready.” “Verry good, sir. There are always some taxis here. When you gome down——” “Order it now,” said Below. “And let it wait.” “As you please, sir.” He touched a bell-push, and a gong stammered outside. Peregrine stepped to the lift. As he did so the gates were opened, and two people emerged—a gentle, white-haired woman and a tall, steady-eyed girl of thirty-four. Idly Peregrine registered them as an English lady of title with an American niece. Herein he was perfectly right. That, as she passed him, the girl turned very pale he did not remark. He had no idea who she was. After all, he had not seen her for more than seven years. * * * * * That Joan Purchase Atlee, young, rich, attractive, would never marry seemed to be past all question. Her aunt, however, refused to abandon hope. Joan was so obviously cut for wedlock and motherhood. To suckle the memory of a broken dream was out of all reason. ‘Men were deceivers ever.’ Besides . . . But Joan was resolute. She had loved Peregrine with a whole heart, and no other man had ever touched her at all. More. Peregrine had loved her. He had not left her: he had been stolen away. She had never seen Mrs. Below, but she was certain of that. Her man was faithful. If he had been bewitched, so much the worse for them both. Her man was faithful, and she would be faithful to him.