But the weeks went on and nothing happened. Letters came, curious restrained letters, at longer intervals from Muriel. Vernley, as if conscious of the lessening circle, wrote more frequently. Lindon, in a big boyish left hand sent the town gossip; he had found a consolation, he was composing, and Tilly was wonderful. June came, with warmer and longer days in those northern waters, and with it a hurried note from Muriel saying she would be in London in a week; could he meet her, as she wished to see him? Her wish was a command that found him eager to obey. A few wires, an interview, and he was released; his leave was overdue and the _Daily Post_ offered to send a temporary substitute at once. John waited impatiently four days and almost embraced his successor when H.M.S. Oak brought him alongside. He wired to Muriel asking when and where they could meet. On Friday night he was back in London, more wonderful, more beloved than ever to the exile, and found a reply at Mrs. Perdie's bidding him meet her in the lounge at Claridge's on Saturday evening at seven. He pictured her, waiting for him there, in a chic nurse's uniform, and to be worthy of her and in celebration of the great occasion, he put on his best service jacket. He was there at five minutes before the hour, and to his surprise she was already waiting for him. He rushed towards her with impetuous boyish joy, that raised smiles on many observant faces around. Her greeting was more restrained, and her calmness steadied him. How splendid she was and how lovely, he thought. She had changed, of course, but she was the more Muriel for all that. "We've a private sitting room--let us go upstairs," she said, when he had let her withdraw her hand. "You're staying here?" he asked, surprised. "Yes," she answered. There was nothing said in the lift. He could only look at her, but once the door had closed upon them in the small hall opening on the tiny sitting room, he put his arms out to take her into them. "Darling," he whispered, but she seemed too agitated with nervous joy to respond, and led the way into the room, where she immediately sat down. Even then he did not see that she was slightly unnatural, as under a strain. The first indication was her voice as she pronounced his name. He looked at her more observantly; a dumb pain in her eyes, which met his with a quiet strength, caused his heart to sink a little. "Muriel--there's nothing wrong?" She looked down at her hands a moment, and then up at him as he stood over her. Something in her whole attitude struck him as piteous. He sat down opposite her. "John--dear--I am going to hurt you terribly. If you cannot forgive me I shall understand. I am no longer Muriel Vernley--I am Muriel Harvey." He looked at her. What was she saying? She was unnerved, he could see that; this strain had been too much for her. But in that brief silence she saw by the kindness in his eyes that he had not understood.