“That is something!” she exclaimed, drawing a little breath of relief. “Sit down, Peter. Will you have something to eat? I finished dinner an hour ago, but--” “Thank you,” Fitzgerald interrupted, “I supped--extremely well in Streatham!” “In Streatham!” she repeated. “Why, how did you get there? The fog is awful.” “Fogs do not trouble me,” Fitzgerald answered. “I walked. I could have done it as well blindfold. I will take a whisky and soda, if I may.” She led him to an easy-chair. “I will mix it myself,” she said. Without being remarkably good-looking, she was certainly a pleasant and attractive-looking young woman. Her cheeks were a little pale; her hair--perfectly natural--was a wonderful deep shade of soft brown. Her eyes were long and narrow--almost Oriental in shape--and they seemed in some queer way to match the room; he could have sworn that in the firelight they flashed green. Her body and limbs, notwithstanding her extreme slightness, were graceful, perhaps, but with the grace of the tigress. She wore a green silk dressing jacket, pulled together with a belt of lizard skin, and her neck was bare. Her skirt was of some thin black material. She was obviously in deshabille, and yet there was something neat and trim about the smaller details of her toilette. “Go on, please, Peter,” she begged. “You are keeping me in suspense.” “There isn’t much to tell,” he answered. “It’s over--that’s all.” She drew a sharp breath through her teeth. “You are not going to marry that girl--that bourgeois doll in Streatham?” Fitzgerald sat up in his chair. “Look here,” he said, seriously, “don’t you call her names. If I’m not going to marry her, it isn’t my fault. She is the only girl I have ever wanted, and probably--most probably--she will be the only one I ever shall want. That’s honest, isn’t it?” The girl winced. “Yes,” she said, “it is honest!” “I should have married her,” the young man continued, “and I should have been happy. I had my eye on a villa--not too near her parents--and I saw my way to a little increase of salary. I should have taken to gardening, to walks in the Park, with an occasional theatre, and I should have thoroughly enjoyed a fortnight every summer at Skegness or Sutton-on-Sea. We should have saved a little money. I should have gone to church regularly, and if possible I should have filled some minor public offices. You may call this bourgeois--it was my idea of happiness.” “Was!” she murmured. “Is still,” he declared, sharply, “but I shall never attain to it. To-night I had to leave Maud--to leave the supper table of Daisy Villa--through the window!” She looked at him in amazement. “The police,” he explained. “That brute Dory was at the bottom of it.” “But surely,” she murmured, “you told me that you had a bona-fide situation--”