The sunshine thrilled her veins with a new sense of life. Two affectionate sparrows set up a lover-like duet on the kitchen window-sill. The air was full of young spring. All was right with the world. “Hallo!” It was Wynne’s voice calling. “I say, I can’t possibly ask Quiltan to this shabby old place. It would bias any one. I’ll ring him up and tell him to meet me at the club. G’bye.” A moment later the front door slammed. The sound scared the sparrows at their courtship and sent them fluttering to a tree below. Then Eve sat down, and resting her head on the kitchen table, cried as if her soul were broken in two. V Wynne rang up Quiltan’s number, and was answered by the manservant, who said: “Very good, sir. I will tell him.” But when he went to do so he found his master had already gone out. Lane Quiltan was somewhat surprised when the door of Wynne’s flat was opened by a girl who by no stretch of imagination could be thought to belong to the servant class. She wore a coarse apron, her sleeves were rolled up, and there was a redness about her eyes that could only have come from tears. “I beg your pardon,” he said; “is this Mr. Rendall’s flat?” “Yes.” “Is he—at home?” “No,” replied Eve. Then, as she realized what had happened, a smile broke the tragical lines of her expression. “He asked me to lunch,” said Quiltan. “May I come in?” “Yes, please do.” He followed her to the shabby sitting-room. “I’m afraid,” said Eve, “my husband won’t be back to lunch. He was telephoning to ask you to meet him at the club instead.” “Your husband?” He looked at her in surprise. “I didn’t know Rendall was married.” She bit her lip—it was rather an unkind stab. He noticed this, and hastened to say: “That is, he never told me.” “Why should he?” she answered quickly. He looked at her for a longish while before replying: “I can see quite a number of reasons.” The words were spoken with simple sincerity, and they brought a glow of bright colour to her cheeks. Thinking perhaps he had offended, he said: “Well, since he has gone to the club, I suppose I had better follow him there. I don’t want to go a bit, and I’m sorry we shan’t be lunching together.” “So am I,” she nodded. “Why aren’t we?” he asked, unexpectedly. “I suppose there is no great harm telling you—since you are here. This was to have been a business meeting, and Wynne thought the surroundings might prove—unproductive.” “Oh!” He hesitated; then: “When did he think that?” “An hour ago.” “Then,” said Quiltan, with quick intuition, “the lunch must have been partially prepared?” “It was.” He took a deep breath. “Isn’t it a pity to waste it? I mean, don’t you think I might be invited to share it with you?” There was something very attractive in the tentative manner in which he made the proposal. “Do you want to stay?” “Very much indeed.”