Interleaving his note book was Miss Piggin's card, and on it, in a pointed Italian hand, the address of a boarding house she recommended. "Mrs. Perdie, 108, Mariton Street, S.W." In his pocket, John carried another specimen of Miss Piggin's handwriting, on the flyleaf of "The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft," calmly setting forth the inscription--"To John Narcissus Dean from Elsa Piggin, in memory of walks and talks." Some of the letters had run, Miss Piggin explained, owing to the dew dripping from some roses just gathered, on her writing desk. The warmth of her pillow overnight had somewhat crinkled the dried page, but this Miss Piggin did not attempt to explain. She carefully hid from all eyes that, with his departure, Romance died. Henceforth, she accepted Fate with gentle compliance. No more rebellions, never again the false hope of Springtime; even photographs were resolutely put away, John's included, but she permitted one small snapshot taken on the football field, to remain on her dressing table. He had such a handsome leg, and her soul craved beauty. For the rest she was unwearied in attention to her father. He found clean nibs in his pens, his note-books carefully dusted and replaced. She had a great scheme that afternoon for the Ladies' Sewing Meeting, which foretold long months of patient work--an altar cloth, embroidered with scenes from the life of St. John. Appropriately therefore, the opening lesson was read from the Gospel according to St. John. She began it with loving reverence. St. John was such a beautiful name, she thought. And John? Alas! he too dreamed, of a fair face, the laughter of maidenhood, the sudden shaking of curls beautiful in their agitation. Those last moments in the hall, awaiting the arrival of Tod with his car, were painful almost. One by one they had said good-bye. Mr. Vernley, red-faced, cheerful, friendly; Mrs. Vernley, motherly to the last, then Kitty, off for her morning ride, and Alice about to retire to her voice production; and then they were alone for a few precious moments. "You will write?" "Every day, darling," he vowed. "I shall always think of you." "Always?" "Always!" she promised. Their hands are locked--silence, and tears in Muriel's eyes. "I shall soon be on my feet." "I know." "Muriel!" "John, dearest!" "London is nearer than Chawley." "Yes, John, but--" "But?" "It is so new, such an adventure." "That thrills me--our day draws nearer, our day, Muriel." There is another pause. Bobbie bangs the door open before approaching. "Car's coming round, Scissors," he shouts. "Good-bye, Muriel, old thing! Remember me to the nuns!" He strides up and kisses her soundly on the cheek, sees tears in her eyes; she feels the reassuring pressure of her brother's hands upon her arms. And then they are gone.