He nodded amiably and moved off. Maggy, minus her wrap, rushing toward Alexandra, collided with him. "Where’s your dust-cloak?" he demanded. "Oh, who can think of dust-cloaks when they’re excited!" she exclaimed, and flung her arms round Alexandra. "You _were_ a go, Lexie!" "That’s the third time this week I’ve seen you without it," said De Freyne testily. "One and six more for the share-holders. Oh, don’t grumble, Mr. De Freyne, or else I shall kiss you, too. I don’t know what I’m doing!" She put her arm in Alexandra’s and dragged her off to her dressing-room. De Freyne’s eyes followed the former. "Deep little devil, that," he observed to his stage-manager, who had been looking on. "Clever too." "They’re all devils," rejoined that experienced person, wearily. "But it’s a change when they’re clever. Talking of cleverness, her friend’s worth watching. She’s very raw material, but—" "You mean young Delamere? Clever?" "Clever as paint!" XXXII Maggy had a pleasant surprise in store for Woolf. She meant to spring it on him that night after supper; but before the opportunity arose for doing so she herself was to suffer anything but a pleasant one from him. Although he was not in the habit of lavishing valuable presents on her she spent a good deal of her pocket money on him. He was not always grateful for these little attentions. He regarded her gifts as superfluous expressions of affection, especially as he paid for both. At one time and another she had given him a gold cigarette-case, pocket-books, silver pencils, photograph frames, smoking requisites. On one occasion, to his amusement, she had presented him with a crocheted pajama bag with his initials carried out in the design. This labor of love was the product of her period of convalescence. But now, perhaps to clear her conscience of her innocent traffic with Chalfont, she had launched with extravagance on his account. It took the form of the gift of a diamond ring. She had paid for it with all her savings, and she hoped it was a good stone, because Woolf had the trait which the proverb warns us against: he liked to look a gift-horse in the mouth. She was on the point of making her presentation when he said: "By the way, you’re going to be a grass-widow for three weeks." "Oh, Fred!" she exclaimed, her face falling. "I’ve got to go abroad." "Where?" "South of France." "When?" "To-morrow." That he should leave her at all was utterly unexpected: the immediateness of his departure was so overwhelming. She sat for a while in startled silence. Suddenly she got up and threw her arms round him. "Oh, Fred, take me with you," she coaxed. "It’s summer there, isn’t it? I’ve never been abroad." Woolf avoided her eyes. "And I’ve not been well. It would do me good. I’d _love_ to travel with you, Fred. I’d have some new trunks with your initials on them, and I’d look so married and good. Really!"