"I know!" Margot’s lovely eyes looked sympathy. "I remember how fond you’ve always been of the little cousin." "Uncle Owen and Lynette won’t believe that the darling’s drowned," Patrine went on. "But I can’t hope! I’m not of the hoping kind! When I shut my eyes I seem to see Bawne fighting to keep afloat—then sinking. It’s as though he called me, and—it’s horrible!" She shuddered. "It’s horrible!" "And—Count von Herrnung? The German Flying Man?" Margot touched the large white hand next her. "You know what a bad hand I am at saying things that are consolatory and cosy. Couldn’t rake up a single text for my life—or if I did I’d quote ’em wrong end topside. Like the callow curate who assured the weeping widow that ’Heaven tempers the wind to the lorn sham!’" "I’ll let you off the texts, not being a weeping widow!" But Patrine’s pale cheeks burned. Margot pursued, not looking at them: "Rhona Helvellyn told me there was nothing serious between you. Indeed, she said you rather hated him than otherwise. But of course you’re sorry he’s drowned, naturally!" There was a silence. Then: "Yes," Patrine agreed, "I rather hated him than otherwise!" "Ah!" Margot’s little face was sage. "It’s a pity you don’t care for some nice man or other!" "Isn’t it?" "But you will one day. It’s much nicer to live with your husband than with your sister. Though I never had a sister," added Margot. Then her mind, light and brilliant as a humming-bird, flitted to another subject. "Rhona and her two Militants lunched with me on Sunday. Awfully down on their luck, all three. The Grand Slam they’d planned—the surprise-packet for the Mansion House Banquet had had the lid put on it by the Police. Fancy Scotland Yard finding out anything! But it had, for Rhona got a mysterious note warning her that she’d be dropped on before she could open her head. So—the Bishops toddled through their speeches without being interrupted! Sit down and light up. These Balkan Sobranies are tophole!" "I can’t stay!" But Patrine sat down on the sofa, dipped in the ever-brimful silver box, and kindled a cigarette. "Where’s His Nibs?" she asked. For not even the chastening of bereavement could cure Patrine of slanginess. "Called to B.P.G. Headquarters suddenly." Margot blew rings. "Or doing duty for some pal or other at the Tower. Don’t bother about him! Tell me—why can’t you stay with me?" "Aunt Lynette wants me, for one thing. And——" "And who for the other?" "A man!" Patrine sent a thin blue spiral of cigarette smoke twirling upwards from her pursed lips. Intently she watched it climbing and spreading. When it faded between her absorbed eyes and the Futurist mouldings of the lapis lazuli-grounded ceiling whereon a silver comet swung in a great elliptical orbit about a golden central Sun, she resumed: "A man——" "That makes two men!" said Margot shrewdly,