Lonsdale asked what she meant, and Sylvia told him the origin of Dorothy's name. "Oh, I say, that's topping. What's her real name?" "No, no," Sylvia said. "I've been sufficiently spiteful." "Probably Buggins, really. I say, Cousin Dorothy," he went on, in a louder voice. "What about bridge to-morrow night after the Empire?" Lady Clarehaven flashed a look at Sylvia, who could not resist shaking her head and earning thereby another sharper flash. When Sylvia talked over the Clarehavens with Olive, she found that Olive had been quite oblivious of anything unusual in the sudden move to town. "Of course, Dorothy and I can never be what we were to each other; but I thought they seemed so happy together. I'm so glad it's been such a success." "Well, has it?" said Sylvia, doubtfully. "Oh yes, my dear! How can you imagine anything else?" With the deepening of winter Olive fell ill and the doctors prescribed the Mediterranean for her. The malady was nothing to worry about; it was nothing more than fatigue; and if she were to rest now and if possible not work before the following autumn, there was every reason to expect that she would be perfectly cured. Sylvia jumped at an excuse to go abroad again and suggested a visit to Sirene. The doctor, on being assured that Sirene was in the Mediterranean, decided that it was exactly the place best suited to Olive's state of health. Like most English doctors, he regarded the Mediterranean as a little larger than the Serpentine, with a characteristic climate throughout. Olive, however, was much opposed to leaving London, and when Sylvia began to get annoyed with her obstinacy, she confessed that the real reason for wishing to stay was Jack. "Naturally, I wanted to tell you at once, my dear. But Jack wouldn't let me, until he could see his way clear to our being married. He was quite odd about you, for you know how fond he is of you--he thinks there's nobody like you--but he particularly asked me not to tell you just yet." "Of course I know the reason," Sylvia proclaimed, instantly. "The silly, scrupulous, proud ass. I'll have it out with him to-morrow at lunch. Dearest Olive, I'm so happy that I like your curly-headed actor." "Oh, but, darling Sylvia, his hair's quite straight!" "Yes, but it's very long and gets into his eyes. It's odd hair, anyway. And when did the flaming arrow pin your two hearts together?" "It was that evening you played baccarat at Curzon Street--about ten days ago. You didn't think we'd known long, did you? Oh, my dear, I couldn't have kept the secret any longer." Next day Sylvia lunched with Jack Airdale and came to the point at once. "Look here, you detestably true-to-type, impossibly sensitive ass, because I to please me lent you fifty pounds, is that any excuse for you to keep me out in the cold over you and Olive? Seriously, Jack, I do think it was mean of you."