There is one shady place which faces Park Lane--a stretch of wooded lawn where garden chairs are set six deep. Behind this phalanx there is an irregular fringe of seats, usually in couples, and greatly in request during the darker hours. In the early morning, before the energies of the promenaders are exhausted, the spot is deserted. But two young people occupied chairs this morning. There was nothing in the appearance of the girl that would have made the companionship seem incongruous. In her tailored costume, the unobtrusive hat and the simplicity of her toilette, she might as well have been the youngest daughter of a duke or a workgirl with a judgment in dress. Her clothes would not be "priced" by the most expert of women critics and even stockings and shoes, the last hope of the appraiser, would have baffled. No two glances would have been required to put the man in his class. If he was a thought dandified, it was the dandification of a gentleman. He looked what he was, a man of leisure; the type which is to be found in the Guards or the smartest regiment of cavalry. Yet Ronald Morelle was no soldier. He had served during the war, but had seen none of its devastations. He hated the violence of battle and despised the vulgarity of noisy patriotism. His knowledge of Italian had secured him a quasi-diplomatic appointment, nominally at the Italian headquarters, actually in Rome. He had used every influence that could be employed, pulled every string that could be pulled, to keep him from the disorder of the front line, and fortune had favored him to an extraordinary extent. On the very day he received instructions to report to the regiment with which he had trained, the armistice was signed--he saw the last line of trenches which the British had prepared but never occupied, south of Amiens, saw them from the train that carried him home, and thought that they looked beastly uncomfortable. The girl by his side would not be alone in thinking him good-looking. He was that rarity, a perfectly featured man. His skin was faultless; his straight nose, his deep-set brown eyes, his irreproachable mouth, were excellent. The hyper-critical might cavil at the almost feminine chin. A small brown moustache was probably responsible for the illusion that he favored the profession of arms. Evie Colebrook thought he was the most beautiful man in the world, and when he smiled, as he was smiling now, she dared not look at him. He was talking about looks, and she was deliciously flattered. "How ridiculous you are, Mr. Morelle," she protested, "I suppose you have said that to thousands and thousands of girls?" "Not quite so many, Evie," he answered. "To be exact, I can't remember having been so shamelessly complimentary to any girl before. You need not call me 'Mr. Morelle' unless you wish to--my friends call me 'Ronnie'."