"Joan," he said, after a moment, "I'm thinking I have played the deuce with your general routine. All the earlier performances will be in the nature of an anti-climax after this. But--perhaps, later on, when my abominable remarks are not quite so fresh in your mind, you won't regard them as quite such an insult as you do now. Dreadful outsider though I am--unpardonably caddish though it is to have criticised your war work--especially when I have appreciated it so much--will you try to remember that it would have been far easier and pleasanter to have done the other thing?" Slowly her eyes came round to his face, and he saw that they were dangerously bright. "What other thing?" she demanded. "Carried on with the game; the game that both you and I know so well. Hunting, cricket and making love. . . . Is it not written in 'Who's Who'--unless that interesting publication is temporarily out of print?" "It strikes me," the girl remarked ominously, "that to your caddishness you add a very sublime conceit." Vane grinned. "Mother always told me I suffered from swelled head. . . ." He pointed to the envelope still unaddressed, lying between them on the writing table. "After which slight digression--do you mind?" She picked up the pen, and sat down once again. "I notice your tone changes when you want me to help you." Vane made no answer. "The address is Mrs. Vernon, 14, Culman Terrace, Balham," he remarked quietly. "I trust she is doing war work that pleases you," sneered the girl. She handed him the envelope, and then, as she saw the blaze in his eyes, she caught her breath in a little quick gasp. "As far as I know," he answered grimly, "Mrs. Vernon is endeavouring to support herself and three children on the large sum of one hundred and fifty pounds a year. Her husband died in my arms while we were consolidating some ground we had won." He took the envelope from her hand. "Thank you; I am sorry to have had to trouble you." He walked towards the door, and when he got to it, he paused and looked back. Joan Devereux was standing motionless, staring out of the window. Vane dropped his letter into the box in the hall, and went up the stairs to his room. CHAPTER VI There was no objection to Vane going to London, it transpired. He had merely to write his name in a book, and he was then issued a half-fare voucher. No one even asked him his religion, which seemed to point to slackness somewhere. It was with feelings the reverse of pleasant that Vane got into the first-class carriage one morning four days after he had written to Mrs. Vernon. She would be glad to see him, she had written in reply, and she was grateful to him for taking the trouble to come. Thursday afternoon would be most convenient; she was out the other days, and on Sundays she had to look after the children. . . .