“Well,” said Cynthia, when this ceremony had been performed, “we’d better be off too. You’ll be going back at once, Mr. Priestley? You’re sure you won’t stop and see the wanderers return?” “I think perhaps not,” Mr. Priestley said with discretion. “I shall leave you to brave that storm, Mrs. Nesbitt. I shall have one of my own to weather at home, remember.” Dora giggled in a way that reminded Mr. Priestley most delectably of Laura. “What are you really going to do with my erring sister, Mr. Priestley? You won’t be too hard on her, will you?” “It’s all I’ve been able to do to make him hard enough,” smiled Cynthia. They shook hands with Mr. Priestley. Dora, it was evident, bore him no malice. Dora and Laura were very exceptional young women. Mr. Priestley had reached the gate into the road when Cynthia, as if on a sudden impulse, darted after him. “Use that special licence of yours, Mr. Priestley!” she whispered, holding that astonished gentleman by the sleeve. “Don’t enlighten Laura at all—marry her instead! That’s my advice.” Cynthia then darted back again, sailing over her shoulder. “Come round to the garage,” Dora said to her, “and I’ll run us up in George’s car.” Dora was a poor prophet. As they came in sight of the garage it was just possible to see George’s car disappearing neatly through the gateway into the road. At the wheel was Monica. For a pupil who, according to the frequently expressed opinions of both herself and her teacher, required very many more lessons before she could be trusted to take the car out alone, she seemed to be managing the rather difficult exit very capably. “Monica!” called Cynthia. “_Monica!_” shrieked Dora. Monica did not reply, but the car accelerated with a bound which almost lifted it off the ground. The two looked at each other. “Apparently we have to walk after all,” said Cynthia. “Harpenfield Woods, I suppose,” said Dora sadly. “It’s funny how being in love seems to warp a female’s sense of humour,” Cynthia mused. “I don’t think it does men’s.” They set out towards their goal where a strangely humbled Mr. Foster was anxiously awaiting them. Chapter XVIII. Mr. Priestley Solves His Last Problem Mr. Priestley returned to London with emotions that were decidedly mixed. His delight in his successful revenge was almost swamped in the feelings caused by Cynthia’s utterly unscrupulous suggestion. He knew, of course, that he could never act upon it: to do so would be the act of a cad, a poltroon, and a blackguard. But there was no harm in allowing it to titillate his mind.