Instantly as though the intervening years had never been, Bobby took his second place beside Cards' glory--even Percival's intention of securing the wonderful Mr. Rondel, author of “The Violet's Redemption,” for their table, failed of its effect. They were enough. They didn't want anybody else--Room for Mr. Cardillac! And he seized it. Just as he would have seized it years ago at school so he seized it now. Their table was caught into the most dazzling series of adventures. Cards had been everywhere, seen everybody and everything--seen it all, moreover, with the right kind of gaiety, with an appreciation that was intelligent and also humorous. There was humour one moment and pathos the next--deep feeling and the wittiest cynicism. They were all swung about Europe and with Cards at their head pranced through the cities of the world. Meanwhile Peter fancied that once or twice Clare flung him a little glance of appeal to ask for forgiveness--and once they looked up and smiled at one another. A tiny smile but it meant everything. “Oh! won't we have a reconciliation afterwards? How could I have said those things? Don't we just love one another?” When they went upstairs again Peter and Cards exchanged a word: “You'll come and see us?” “My dear old man, I should just think so. This is the first time I've been properly in London for years and now I'm going to stay. Fancy you married and successful and here am I still the rolling-stone!” “You! Why you can do anything!” “Can't write 'Reuben Hallard,' old boy....” and so, with a laugh, they parted. In the cab, afterwards, Clare's head was buried in Peter's coat, and she sobbed her heart out. “How I _could_ have been such a beast, Peter, Peter!” “Darling, it was nothing.” “Oh, but it was! It shall never, never happen again...but I was frightened--” “Frightened!” “Yes, I always think some one's going to take you away. I don't understand all those other people. They frighten me--I want you to myself, just you and I--always.” “But nobody can take me away--nobody--” The cab jolted along--her hand was on his knee--and every now and again a lamp lighted her face for him and then dropped it back into darkness. By the sharp pressure of her hand he knew that she was moved by an intensity of feeling, swayed now by one of those moods that came to her so strangely that it seemed that they belonged to another personality. “Look... Peter. I'm seeing clearly as I think I never have before. I'm afraid--not because of you--but because of myself. If you knew--” here his hand came down and found hers--“if you knew how I despise myself, my real self. I've been spoilt always, always, always. I've always known it. My real self is ashamed of it. But there's another side of me that comes down suddenly and hides all that--and then--when that happens--I just want to get what I want and not to be hurt and ...” she pressed closer against him and went on in a whisper.