One August evening, when it was late enough for her to be conscious that the nights were drawing in, she was returning from a happy hour spent with her lover. It now wanted but a week to their marriage; their hearts were delirious with happiness. "Don't you miss all the bridesmaids and all the usual thing-uma-jigs of a wedding?" he had asked her. "Not a bit." "Sure, darling?" "Quite. I only want one thing. So long as I get that, nothing else can possibly matter." "And that?" "You," she had replied, at which Perigal had said after a moment or two of silence: "I will, I really will do all I know to make my treasure of a little Mavis happy." Mavis was walking home with a light step and a lighter heart: more than one red-cheeked, stolid, Wiltshire man and woman turned to look after the trimly-built, winsome girl, who radiated distinction and happiness as she walked. A familiar voice sounded in Mavis's ear. "At last," it said heartfully. She turned, to see Windebank standing before her, a Windebank stalwart as ever, with his face burned to the colour of brick red, but looking older and thinner than when she had last seen him. Mavis' heart sank. "At last," he repeated. He looked as if he would say more, but he did not speak. She wondered if he were moved at seeing her again. Mavis, not knowing what to say, put out her hand, which he clasped. "Aren't you glad to see me?" he asked. "Of course." "And you're not going to run away again?" She looked at him inquiringly. "I mean as you did before, into the fog!" "There's no fog to run into," she remarked feebly. "Little Mavis! Little Mavis! I'd no idea you could look so well and wonderful as you do." "Hadn't we better walk? People are staring at us already." "I can't see you so well walking," he complained. They strolled along; as they walked, Windebank half turned, so that his eyes never left her face. "What a beautiful girl you are!" he said. "You mustn't say that." "But it's true. And to think of you working for that outsider Devitt!" "He means well. And I've been very happy there." "You won't be there much longer! Do you know why?" "Tell me about yourself," she said evasively, as she wondered if talking to Windebank were unfair to Perigal. "Do you remember this?" he asked, as he brought out a crumpled letter for her inspection. "It's my writing!" she cried. "It's the foolish, dear letter you wrote to me." She took it, to recall the dreary day at Mrs Bilkins's on which she had penned the lines to Windebank, in which she had refused to hamper his career by acceding to his request. "Give it back," he demanded. "You don't want it?" "Don't I! A girl who can write a letter like that to a chap isn't easily forgotten, I can tell you."