“I want her to pack a trunk for me. Tell her to put in my gray costume, my new black georgette, my . . .” A long list followed here, of intimate interest to both Laura and Cynthia, and none at all to the reader. “Oh, well, if you can’t remember all that, just tell her all my new spring things, my best evening frocks and my choicest undies. And I want you to tell George that——” Details followed of the car and the garage at Manstead. “But Lawks, what ever are you doing?” “Never mind, darling; of that anon. Oh, and tell Dawks to bring the trunk up here to-morrow morning, put it in the cloakroom, and meet me in the Piccadilly Palace lounge at twelve sharp.” “I’ll see to it,” said Cynthia, to whom an idea had just occurred. “Yes, very well. Lawks, how’s—you know, your little friend?” “Oh, sitting up and taking nourishment.” “Yes, but is he—” “Your thrrrree minutes is up,” said a harsh voice. “Do you want another thrrrree minutes?” And its owner promptly cut them off before either could answer her. Laura returned to Half Moon Street with feelings which she made no attempt to analyse. Mr. Priestley also did not stop to analyse his feelings when Laura returned to him. There was no need. His face one large beam, he welcomed her as if she had been away half a year instead of half an hour. It is to be feared that Mr. Priestley had not been quite as reassured as he should have been by Laura’s solemn word. Having taken off her hat and admired the delightfully cosy little room prepared for her, in which a fire was already burning, Laura returned to the study, and insisted upon being initiated into her secretarial duties that very minute, brushing aside Mr. Priestley’s earnest attempts to establish a conscience which would not allow him even to think of work on a Sunday, much less practise it. Mr. Priestley, who had not the faintest idea what to do with a secretary or how on earth to keep her employed for more than ten minutes in the day, had considerable difficulty in concealing the fact that a secretary who knew no Latin or Greek was just about as much use to him personally as the clothes she was going to buy with his money. Laura, who read each thought as it flitted through his mind, listened demurely to his halting sentences and continued to think what a perfect dear he was. With an air of great importance the perfect dear finally gave her some rough notes he had made ten years before (and never thought of since) upon certain obscure passages in Juvenal, to be put into shipshape form the next morning. Then, with the comfortable feeling of duty done and pleasure coming, he settled down in a chair by the fire for a companionable chat till dinner.