The woman seated at a table by the window in the small drawing-room of a tiny house in one of the back streets of Belgravia laid down her work and rose. It was Marrion Paul; but she was seven years older and neither face nor figure had quite the same buoyant youthfulness. Indeed, as she crossed to the fireplace a distinct limp was apparent. Still her face had gained in beauty, and the masses of her red bronze hair glinted bright as ever. Those seven years of life had been hard in some ways; but they had been happy in others--happy most of all in that Marmaduke Muir was well and content. Marrion drew an easy-chair to the fire and closed the window, knowing her visitor to be chilly. She did the latter with reluctance, for the late November sunshine shone golden in the narrow street, and the somewhat mews-laden atmosphere of those back purlieus of fashionable houses was sweetened as it filtered through the wide boxes of trailing musk which made the little house with the brass plate bearing its legend, MRS. MARSDEN _Layettes_ look quite countrified and summerlike. Peter Muir, coming in languidly, complaining of the cold, slipped into the easy-chair as one accustomed to it. He also was older, his weak face showed signs of recent ill-health; but he was otherwise the loose knit, errant, yet dandified figure he had been. Dressed in the height of the fashion, his blue-and-white bird's eye bow and stiff stand up collar seemed the most striking parts of his personality. "This place is the only peaceful spot in all the town," he sighed. "I often wish I were back in the little room upstairs where you nursed me so patiently." "And your brother, Major Marmaduke," she put in kindly, "don't forget him, Mr. Peter. If it hadn't been for him, I don't believe you would have lived." Peter Muir fingered his nails nervously. "No, I don't suppose I should. You see, it was all Vienna. It's the devil of a place for a young fellow, especially if he has got no money--and we never have any, have we? But that is really the reason why I've dropped in to have a quiet talk with you, so I thought I would come in the morning, in case Marmaduke----" "I haven't seen your brother for ten days," she interrupted quietly. "I believe he has been away hunting in Hampshire, hasn't he?" Peter Muir went on fingering his nails. "Yes," he said at last, "part of the time." Then he suddenly burst out--"I don't know why we should beat about the bush, you and I. You were a perfect Providence to me, Marmie; I used to call you that, you know, when I was so ill and the doctors swore that D.T. must end in an asylum. Duke means a lot to both of us, doesn't he? And it's about him I want to speak. You've noticed, of course, that he is hipped and out of spirits, haven't you?" "No one could help noticing that," she replied coldly.