"Nigel, _don't_ think I haven't scruples about things. I have, very much, but I know a good deal about Moona, and I really think that any harmless thing we can do to remove obstacles for poor Madeline should be done. I promised Madeline. I shall be grateful if you'll help, Nigel." "There's no question about it," said Nigel. "Of course it must be rushed through. And now I suppose you want me to go?" "Oh no! Please don't! Percy will be here directly." He got up. "Good-bye. I'll ring you up to-morrow. It's some little consolation for being an idle man to have leisure to fulfil your commands." She answered that he was very good and she was very pleased with him, and he went away. CHAPTER IV RUPERT AT RUMPELMEYER'S At a quarter to four precisely, in a heavy shower of rain, Madeline sprang out of a taxicab in St. James's Street, and tripped into Rumpelmeyer's. As it was pouring lavishly and she had no umbrella, she hastily and enthusiastically overpaid the cabman, with a feeling of superstition that it might bring her luck; besides, a few drops of rain, she reflected, would ruin her smart new hat if she waited for change. It was a very small hat, over her eyes, decorated with a very high feather, in the form of a lightning-conductor. She was charmingly dressed in a way that made her look very tall, slim and elegant. Her rather long, sweet face was paler than usual, her sincere brown eyes brighter. She had come to have tea with Rupert. * * * * * From the back room, waiting for her, rose the worshipped hero. He was, as she had described him, very much like a Vandyke picture. He had broad shoulders, and a thin waist, a pointed brown beard, regular features, very large deep blue eyes, and an absurdly small mouth with dazzling white teeth. If he was almost too well dressed--so well that one turned round to look at his clothes--his distinguished manners and _grand seigneur_ air carried it off. One saw it was not the over-dressing of the _nouveau riche_, but the rather old-world dandyism of a past generation. This was the odder as the year was 1913, and he was exactly thirty. He always wore a buttonhole--to-day it was made of violets to match his violet socks--and invariably carried a black ebony stick, with an ivory handle. With a quiet smile on his small mouth, he greeted and calmed the agitated Madeline. She dropped her bag on the floor before she sat down, and when Rupert picked it up for her she dropped it again on a plate of cream cakes. He then took it and moved it to his side of the table. "I thought," he said smoothly, in a rather low, soothing voice, "that you'd like these cakes better than toast." She eagerly assured him that he was right, though it happened to be quite untrue. "And China tea, of _course_?" "Oh, of _course_!" She disliked it particularly.