“Very possibly it might be regarded as extraordinary--out in the so-called world,” David assented, reflectively. “But it is just the thing that would be expected in fairyland. Yes, it seems, on the face of it, a beneficent occurrence. It is good for you to be seized and possessed of a rich uncle--from some points of view. But from others--a doubt suggests itself, Vestalia, whether your uncle is well-affected toward the fairies. Standard Oil does not lend itself without an effort to the fantastic. What if your uncle beckons you to come forth from fairyland?” “And leave you behind--is that what you mean?” asked Vestalia, slowly. “That would depend--depend on how much you wanted me to stay.” David put out his left hand to take hers, where it lay upon the cloth. With his right he drew out his watch. “The name Skinner,” he said, “is all right for the folk at the Savoy. It is not a suitable name for you. I sympathise fully with your impulse to abandon it. The expedient which you adopted was, no doubt, the best that offered itself at the moment, but I think I know a better. I must leave you now, and hurry into the City. This is Monday. Dear love, on Thursday I claim the whole day from you. We will breakfast here at eight--it is not too early, is it?--or say rather that at just eight I will come and find you on Westminster Bridge. The day must begin there, mustn’t it? And--strangely enough--Thursday is in a sort another birthday of mine.” “And of mine too?” she asked, with a light in her eyes. CHAPTER XII. In the early afternoon of Thursday, David Mosscrop walked apart on shaded gravel-paths, beneath arches of roses and the feathered canopy of cedars high above, with Adele by his side. “Oh, it’s all right. The waiter will come out and tell us when it is ready,” he said reassuringly, in comment upon her backward glance. “I want to speak with you. There was no such thing as a word with you by yourself on the road.” “Why, we talked every mortal minute,” she protested. “Ah yes, we talked, but I don’t recall that anything was said.” “I daresay _my_ conversation is empty to the last degree,” she observed; “but I am usually spared such frank statements of the fact.” “Ah, but I want to be thought of as something a little different from the usual,” urged David. “Your efforts in that direction have been extraordinarily successful. Pray, do not imagine that they are unappreciated. I admit freely that you seem to have quite exhausted the unusual, my Lord.” “No; I’ve still got something up my sleeve,” said David, lightly enough. But the tone in which she had uttered those final two words caught his attention. They carried a suggestion of emphasis which fell outside the bounds of genial banter. Meditating upon it he stole a covert glance at her, and encountered two wide-awake black eyes intently scrutinising him in turn. “It was about that I wished to consult you,” he added, conscious of an embarrassed tongue.