Joan Purchase Atlee was nearing Biarritz, Peregrine was in a car heading for Havre, and Mrs. Carey Below was sitting in a Paris hotel, staring upon a letter, with her eyes aflame and her underlip caught in her teeth. A second letter lay on the floor by her side, its single sheet crumpled as though in wrath. By your leave, I will straighten it out. _DEAR MARION,_ _I have decided that we are better apart. If you will write to Forsyth, saying you accept this decision, he will send you a cheque for five hundred pounds, and, so long as you do not seek to avoid this decision, on application to Forsyth, one thousand pounds will be paid to you every quarter._ _PEREGRINE._ The second letter, though not the envelope, was in the same handwriting. Mrs. Below had dictated it—some seven years ago. _MY DEAR JOAN,_ _This is rather a difficult letter to write, but I have come to the conclusion that it would be a fatal mistake for us to be married. We’re friends, I know, but there must be something more than friendship if marriage is to be a success. Where there is no true understanding there can never be real happiness. I am sure that after a little you will see the force of my words and realize with me that I am taking the wisest, although by no means the easiest, course in asking you to release me from my engagement. If I don’t hear from you I shall know that you agree._ _Yours very sincerely,_ _PEREGRINE CAREY BELOW_. _P.S.—I think it best for both of us that we should not meet again, so I am leaving for London to-night._ Mrs. Carey Below stared and stared. Presently she glanced round, folded the letter swiftly and thrust it into her bag. Out of sight, out of mind. . . . Out of sight. . . . With an effort she wrenched at her thoughts, speaking mechanically to give her brain a lead. “So nothing,” she rasped, breathing heavily through her nose, “_nothing_ is sacred to him. This—after seven years. . . .” She raised her voice. “Pickford!” But Pickford was in a taxi, heading for the Gare du Nord. DERRY DERRY The windows were wide open, and Carlton House Terrace was agog with ragtime. The saxophone, Lord of Misrule, swerved and staggered, and the band with it, playing such tricks with rhythm as a juggler will play with a plate. The bladder entering into the soul, an elegant company was dancing hilariously and letting the world slip with an efficiency which Epicurus himself must have applauded. Two of the dancers, however, were not smiling, and, though they passed through the press with an ease and grace of movement which few other couples could display, neither of their hearts was wearing a wedding-garment.