"_Had_ to! At three o’clock in the morning! When I was having such a tophole dream! Thought I was back at the Club in my three dear rooms with the Adams doors and chimney-pieces—and Pauline came in with a huge basket of white flowers—and I asked: ’_Who are they for?_’ And she said: ’For Mademoiselle!’ And I was Margot St. John—and had never been married!" There was infinite wistfulness in the little voice. "White flowers mean death, don’t they, when you dream of ’em? And I’m sorry your dip in the Bran Tub of Matrimony has turned out such a bad investment. What I came to tell you should revive your hopes of making a better one, my child!" That jarring note of mingled resentment and irony, how new and strange it sounded to Margot! Until this moment Franky’s voice had never been anything but gentle. It was gentle now as he said, at his dressing-room door: "Finish your sleep. I was rather a brute to wake you!" He was going without a backward glance. "Come back! Come off it! Don’t be dignified!" Margot called after the retreating figure. "I’m quite awake now, so you’d better tell. What’s on?" He came back to the bedside, looking tall and shadowy in the blue dimness. Margot put up a little hand and patted his cheek. There were wet drops upon the smooth, warm skin.... Perhaps he had walked home, and it had been raining. Or— "_Franky_! You’re not——" He captured the little hand and took it in both his own, and squeezed it. He said in a cheerful but rather choky voice: "Of course not! And—the news could have waited. Only—since midnight England and Germany have been at War. The Big Scrap is three hours old. First battalion of Ours is under orders for the Front—I’ve exchanged out of the Second with Ackroyd—too sick a man for fightin’ just now, luckily for me. You know Ackroyd. Used to flirt with him frightfully—to give me beans when I’d vexed you when we were first engaged. When do we go, did you ask? Liable to be off at any old minute. By-bye, little woman. Too late to go to bed—heaps of things to attend to. God bless you! See you at brekker—or lunch, if I’ve luck." *CHAPTER L* *THE EVE OF ARMAGEDDON* Kittums, upon that fateful morning, coming down to breakfast and finding no Franky, was annoyed. One might just as well have had breakfast in bed. She didn’t want any, but Cook would be hurt if the chowder and eggs, and croquettes of chicken weren’t eaten. Therefore Margot ate—to avoid wounding the cook. The daily papers she left untouched, knowing that War would leap out from the huge capitals heading the columns and strike her in the eyes.