"He sleeps out," Ronnie helped her off with her wrap. "He's never here after nine. This is my own room, Beryl--but you saw it when the doctor brought you here to dinner." She walked over to the big black table and sat down. "Here genius broods," she laughed quietly, "what a humbug you are, Ronnie! I don't believe you write a thousand words a month!" He smiled indulgently. "And there is your wicked Anthony! He looks worse by artificial light. Now, Ronnie, I really must go." "Go?" incredulously, "with foie-gras sandwiches and a beautifully dry wine--?" The door into the dining-room was open and he pointed. "It is the last bottle of that wine. Jerry will be furious when he comes to breakfast in the morning and finds it gone." Ronnie had a friend, one Jeremiah Talbot, a man after his own heart. Beryl had met him once, a languid loose-lipped man with a reputation for gallantry. "Well--I'll eat just a little--and then you must take me home. You shouldn't have paid off the cab." He was too busy at the wine bucket to listen. She sat on the edge of one of the window chesterfields and let her eyes rove around the room, and after a while he brought a plate and a filled glass. She put her lips to the wine and handed it back to him. "No more, dear." A sudden panic had taken possession of her, and she was shaking. "No--!" And yet it was so natural and so comforting to let him hold her. She relaxed, unresisting. "I shouldn't be here, Ronnie," she murmured between his kisses, "let me go, darling--please." But he held her the tighter and she did not deny his greedy lips. VIII Ronnie woke with a start, stared at the window and cursed. Pulling on a dressing-gown he slipped from the room and at the sight of him the woman who was dusting the sideboard paused in her labors. "I don't want you here today--where is your friend?" "In the pantry, sir." "Well, take her with you--ah, François, listen. Turn these women out and then go out yourself--go to the city--and get--buy anything you like, but don't come back before eleven--no twelve." He waited until the flat was empty and returned to his room. Beryl was lying with her head in the crook of her arm. She was not asleep--nor crying, as he had feared. "I'm dreadfully sorry, darling--I must have fallen asleep." "What is the time?" She did not turn but spoke into the pillow. "Eight--curse it! You can't go home in evening dress." "Why not?" She struggled up, her face averted. "It is the best way," she said, "will you get me a cab?" When he came up again, she was tidying her hair at the mirror. "It was very foolish," she remarked without emotion. "There is nobody below, and, thank God, there was an Albert Hall ball last night," said Ronnie, "and it is only eight--shall I come down with you?" She shook her head. "No--just show me how to work the elevator. An Albert Hall ball? Where could I have been after that finished? You lie better than I, Ronnie."