"Most valuable," returned Vane. "And one is so struck with the pugilistic attitude adopted by both parties. . . . It seems so extraordinarily helpful to the smooth running of the country afterwards." He had no occasion to like Baxter from any point of view--but apart altogether from Joan, he felt that if there was any justification in his late luncheon companion's views, men such as Baxter supplied it. With a movement almost of distaste he turned to Joan. "I was sorry that we didn't have another game before I left Rumfold," he said lightly. "It was so very even that last one," she returned, and Vane's knuckles showed white on the table. "My recollection is that you won fairly easily," he murmured. "Excuse me a moment, will you?" said Mr. Baxter to Joan. "There's a man over there I must speak to. . . ." He rose and crossed the restaurant. Joan watched him as he moved between the tables; then she looked at Vane. "Your recollections are all wrong," she said softly. The grey eyes held no hint of mockery in them now, they were sweetly serious, and once again Vane gripped the table hard. His head was beginning to swim and he felt that he would shortly make a profound fool of himself. "Do you think you're being quite kind, grey girl," he said in a low voice which he strove to keep calm. For a few moments she played with the spoon on her coffee cup, and suddenly with a great rush of pure joy, which well-nigh choked him, Vane saw that her hand was trembling. "Are _you_?" He scarcely heard the whispered words above the noise around. "I don't care whether I am or not." His voice was low and exultant. He looked round, and saw that Baxter was threading his way back towards them. "This afternoon, Joan, tea in my rooms." He spoke swiftly and insistently. "You've just got to meet Binks. . . ." And then, before she could answer, he was gone. . . . CHAPTER XII Vane walked along Piccadilly a prey to conflicting emotions. Dominant amongst them was a wild elation at what he had seen in Joan's eyes, but a very good second was the uncomfortable remembrance of Margaret. What did he propose to do? He was not a cad, and the game he was playing struck him rather forcibly as being uncompromisingly near the caddish. Did he, or did he not, mean to make love to the girl he had just left at the Savoy? And if he did, to what end? A crowd of lunchers coming out of Prince's checked him for a moment or two, and forced him into the arms of an officer and a girl who were standing, apparently waiting for a taxi. Almost unconsciously he took stock of them, even as he apologised. . . . The girl, a pretty little thing, but utterly mediocre and uninteresting, was clinging to the officer's arm, a second lieutenant in the Tank Corps. "Do you think we ought to take a taxi, Bill? Let's go on a 'bus. . . ." "No damn fear," returned Bill. "Let's blow the lot while we're about it. I'm going back to-morrow. . . ."