“Oh, I rang up a little while ago and asked for Mr. Broke’s address—Mr. Jeremy Broke. And you said—I think I spoke to you—you said that if I sent a letter——” “Yes, I remember.” “Well, I’ve just sent you a letter by hand, but I ought to have marked it ‘_Important_’ and—and . . . Well, I really should have enclosed it in a note to you because it’s very urgent, and I would like it sent on by messenger-boy if you could do it. At once—to-night, I mean. You see——” “I don’t think he’s in London. Wait a minute.” The voice became almost inaudible. Frantically Eve strained her ears. . . . “Broke. Jeremy Broke—fellow that wrote _Babel_ . . . messenger-boy. . . . Rome, isn’t it? Poste Restante, Rome. . . .” The voice returned to the mouthpiece. “No. I’m afraid—— Hullo! Are you there? . . . Hullo . . . Hullo . . .” After a moment or two the speaker replaced his receiver with a sigh. “Cut off,” he said wearily. “Never mind. She’ll ring up again.” He was quite wrong. He had had his last conversation with Mrs. Broke. The latter was already preparing to leave for Italy. . . . Two days later the lady had reached Rome and was being rapidly driven to the Ritz Hotel. Purposely she avoided the Grand, where she and Jeremy had stayed—centuries ago. She passed into the hall and up to the polished bureau. The reception-clerk was busy—speaking into the telephone. “_Oui, madame. . . . Parfaitement. . . . Jusqu’à samedi prochain les deux, et après samedi les trois avec un salon en suite. . . . C’est entendu, madame. . . . Merci._” He left the instrument, stooped to make an entry and turned with an apology to Eve. “Hullo, Jeremy,” said his wife. * * * * * At half-past eight that evening Jeremy Broke, Gentleman, entered the Grand Hotel and sent up his name. His head was aching, and he felt rather tired. He wondered dully what this dinner with Eve would bring forth. The great gulf fixed between them seemed exceeding wide: everything was insisting upon its width. Not since the day on which he had left her house had he been used as a gentleman: now he was treated with respect—which her wealth had induced. A page she would presently tip was dancing attendance; here was the pomp of a salon which she had purchased; there was champagne waiting for which she would pay. . . . As the door closed behind him, another was opened, and Eve in a plain black frock came into the room. “Oh, Jeremy.” He went to her quickly and kissed her hands and lips. The big brown eyes searched his steadily. He smiled back. . . . “What is it, Jeremy? Why are you playing up?” Jeremy dropped her fingers and turned away. “The burnt child,” he said slowly, “dreads the fire.” “Are you sorry I came?” “Oh, Eve.” He drew in his breath sharply, hesitated and fell to playing with his moustache. . . . Dinner was served.