“Well, if I’ve seemed off-hand since then, it’s because of what you said. That’s why I’ve not called you by name or—or told you how sweet you are. You see, it began as a game—‘Without Prejudice,’ but when you said what you did, you opened my eyes. . . . And then, suddenly, I realized that for me the game had slid into reality . . . that I had quite lost sight of the very first rule of the game. . . . And so—I had to stop. I couldn’t call you ‘darling’ or speak of the stars in your eyes, because . . . I find you a darling and I love the stars in your eyes.” Cicely bowed her head. The man continued slowly. “Well, there you are. I’ve bought it. I’ve queered my rotten pitch. I suggested the blasted game. I gave it its footling label and let you come right in—_under that shelter_. Now you’re in balk, and I’ve got to let you go. . . . Don’t think I’m trying to get out. I’m not. I’ll post this letter to-night as I’m a living fool. But I’d give ten years of my life to call back the idle moment when I started that game.” For a moment the two sat silent. Then, as if by one consent, they rose to their feet. Cicely put out a hand, and the man took it. “Thank you, Toby,” she said, “I knew I could bank on you. I put my value in your hands, and you’ve given it back. And I think you’re perfectly right. It’s a stupid game. And—and I’m very glad it’s over.” Rage put her hand to his lips and turned away. Her words were equivocal. There was a chance that she meant. . . . But the chance that she meant nothing must turn the scale. “And—er—Toby.” “Yes.” “I’m afraid I made up Alfred.” “Yes, I thought you did,” said Toby. “Why?” “Because the man isn’t foaled who after an hour of your sweetness could refuse you anything. Besides, unless he was mentally deranged, once having got so far, no man on earth would ever have let you go.” “Perhaps—perhaps that’s why he did,” said Cicely. Toby stared. “But I thought you said——” “Oh, I wasn’t thinking of Alfred. There was—another man. He—he was such a dear. It never occurred to me that he was mad. His—his aunt wasn’t. I mean—— Oh, Toby!” The man’s arms were about her, and his cheek against hers. “Cicely darling, d’you love me?” “It sounds very weak, Toby dear, but I’m dreadfully afraid I do.” “My blessed lady,” said Toby, and kissed her mouth. . . . “Oh, do be careful,” said Cicely. “Love’s a disease, you know. Supposing you caught it.” “You wicked child,” said Toby. “I gave it to you.” “O-o-oh!” “Yes, I did. I’ve had it for months and months. But I never knew what it was till . . .” “When did you know, Toby?” “At sixteen minutes past five,” said Toby, “yesterday morning.” OLIVER OLIVER “D’you realize, Oliver, that this is our wedding-day?” Letter in hand, Oliver Pauncefote looked up. “By Jove, so it is,” he said. “May the eighth. So it is. Many happy returns, m’dear.”