_We start Saturday—it’ll be an awful scramble. I suppose you and Justin wouldn’t come and see me off? Don’t bring Tim. I’ve written to Grannie. We talked things out, you know. And I know she won’t set him against me. I know that, else I’d never let her have him. But it’s best for him. I’m not quite a fool. The train leaves Victoria 2.15. If Timmy misses me—but you’d better not bring him. Wish I could have got the London job. Well—it’s done now. Justin will get up on his hind legs and prance, but I can’t help it. Grannie won’t, anyway. She’ll understand. She’s worth all the rest of you put together. That’s why I let her have Timmy. You’ll look after Timmy?_ Laura hurried on to the immense _Coral Cloud_ sprawling across the last page and smiled absently at a sudden memory of Coral expatiating on the effectiveness of her stage name: “So catchy! The Cherry-Pie Tooth-Paste people were after it once! wanted a signed photo. Only Johnnie struck—the billy! It’s quite worth while! They don’t pay cash, of course, but you get their creams for nothing.” Justin had been wooden as he listened. But her smile died away as she read the letter again. She could not understand what had happened. It had been Coral’s business and Coral’s alone to prove her capacity; but Justin had definitely promised to write in such a way that the interview at least, would be assured her. Justin was no tall talker. If he said he could do that much, Laura knew that he could do it. Besides, she herself had more than once met the elusive Mr. Wilbraham at the Priory ... a nice quiet man.... She knew that he and Justin were friends.... Odd.... It was certainly odd.... Had the letter miscarried? Because of course—of course Justin had written.... There was no question of that.... She went puzzling up to the Priory to find that Mrs. Cloud had also received a letter, carefully written and carefully spelled—poor Coral at her grateful stilted best; but it was nearly all about Timothy. There was no mention of the _Fleur-de-Lys_ or Mr. Wilbraham. They discussed the matter with beautifully concealed uneasiness. “Well—” Laura began, and then most cheerfully, “_oh well_—” Mrs. Cloud drummed with her fingers. “After all, it’s her life,” Laura argued. “Yes. Yes, of course. And she writes most sensibly about Timothy.” “Oh, Coral’s very sensible,” said Laura eagerly. She was glad to praise Coral, to be loyal and affectionate to Coral, in atonement for the vague wrong that nobody had done Coral. “Yes, she’s a dear, good girl!” Mrs. Cloud’s tone matched Laura’s. “I wish—I wish she could have stayed in England—have kept in touch—” And then, “I suppose—that part——?” “Oh, I expect there were hundreds of applicants,” said Laura hastily, refusing to remember Coral’s excitement—“A dead secret—keeping it dark—you know what Willy is!” “Most probably she wasn’t suitable,” said Mrs. Cloud. “One never knows,” Laura was evasive. “Is Justin in? I haven’t seen him since Coral left.”