She laughed nervously and laid her two hands on his shoulder. She did not want to kiss or be kissed. And she knew that he felt as she did. "Come to me when I want you--I shall be busy inventing lies for the next few days. Good-bye, Ambrose." When he had gone, she realized that no man's name had been mentioned. Perhaps he knew. X For the first time in his life Ronald Morelle was regretting an adventure. All day long he had been trying to write, with the result that his wastepaper basket was full of torn or twisted sheets, even as the silver ash-tray on the table was heaped with cigarette ends. He had gone half a dozen times to the telephone to call up Merville's house and had stopped short of giving the number. Then he tried to write her a note. He could think of nothing to say beyond the flamboyant beginning. What was the use of writing? And what was she thinking about it all? He wished--and he wished again. He had made a hopeless fool of himself. Why had he done it? For the truth unfolded as the hours passed, that an end must be found to this affair. In other cases _finis_ had been written at his discretion, sometimes cheerfully, sometimes with tears and recriminations. There had been instances that called for solid compensations. Beryl was not to be ended that way. Besides, he had half-promised her--he grew hot at the very thought of matrimony and in the discomfort of the prospect, the pleasant irresponsibilities of bachelorhood and the features that went to the making of his life, seemed too good to lose. In such a mood, he thought of Evie Colebrook. How perfectly attractive she was; he could admire her virtue and coldbloodedly compare her with Beryl--to Beryl's disparagement. He was hemmed in by his new responsibility; ached to be free from fetters that were still warm from the forge. Late at night he wrote two letters, one to Beryl, the other and the longer to Evie. Beryl had hers with her morning tea, saw who it was from the moment the maid pulled aside the curtains and let in the morning sunlight. She turned it over in her hand--now she knew. So that was how she felt about a letter from Ronnie. Not so much as a tremor, not a quicker pulsation of heart. She opened the envelope and read: "_My very dearest_: I don't know what to write to you or how. I adore the memory of you. I am shaken by the calamity--for you. Command me, I will do as you wish. I will not see you again though it breaks my heart." It was written on a plain card, unsigned. She sent him a wire that morning: "Come to tea." In answer came a hurried note by special delivery. "I cannot: I dare not trust myself. I am overwhelmed by the sense of my treachery. That I should have brought a second's unhappiness to you!" Unsigned. Ronnie never signed or dated such epistles. She read the note and laughed. Yes, she could laugh.