Just over a year ago, thirteen months, to be exact, she had been standing before the dining-room window of the little house in Sloane Street. It looked over the railed gardens. Breakfast was over, cleared away and done with ... she had a fat bunch of letters in her hand that she meant to answer, snugly, over the fire. But before settling down, the autumn sun, the freshness had drawn her to the window. Such a perfect morning for the Row. Jimmie had gone riding. “Goodbye, dear thing.” “Goodbye, Gerry mine.” And then the morning kiss, quick and firm. He looked so handsome in his riding kit. She imagined him as she stood there ... riding. Geraldine was not very good at imagining things. But there was mist, a thud of hooves and Jimmie’s moustache was damp. From the garden there sounded the creak of a gardener’s barrow. An old man came into sight with a load of leaves and a broom lying across. He stopped; he began to sweep. “What enormous tufts of irises grew in London gardens,” mused Geraldine. “Why?” And now the smoke of a real fire ascended. “There is nothing nicer,” she thought, “than a really satisfactory fire.” Just at that moment the telephone bell rang. Geraldine sat down at Jimmie’s desk to answer it. It was Major Hunter. “Good morning, Major. You’re a very early bird!” “Good morning, Mrs. Howard. Yes. I am.” (Geraldine made a little surprised face at herself. How odd he sounded!) “Mrs. Howard, I’m coming round to see you ... now ... I’m taking a taxi.... Please don’t go out. And—and—” the voice stammered, “p-please don’t let the servants go out.” “_Par_-don?” This last was so very peculiar, though the whole thing had been peculiar enough, that Geraldine couldn’t believe what she heard. But he was gone. He had rung off. What on earth—and putting down the receiver, she took up a pencil and drew what she always drew when she sat down before a piece of blotting-paper—the behind of a little cat with whiskers and tail complete. Geraldine must have drawn that little cat hundreds of times, all over the world, in hotels, in clubs, at steamer desks, waiting at the Bank. The little cat was her sign, her mark. She had copied it from a little girl at school when she thought it most wonderful. And she never tried anything else. She was ... not very good at drawing. This particular cat was drawn with an extra firm pen and even its whiskers looked surprised. “Not to let the servants go out!” But she had never heard anything so peculiar in her life. She must have made a mistake. Geraldine couldn’t help a little giggle of amusement. And why should he tell her he was taking a taxi? And why—above all—should he be coming to see her at that hour of the morning?