"Not possible, my dear," said Woolf. "De Freyne wouldn’t let you off." "Yes, he would. He did before. You arranged that, so you can again." "I’ll take you abroad some day," he temporized. "I really can’t this time, Maggy. I shall be traveling from place to place. I’ve arranged dates with a man, and I can’t put him off. It’s business. Don’t plague me about it." She saw it was no use arguing with him. "I suppose I may write? What are the places?" she inquired disconsolately. "Nice, Mentone, Cannes. Nice to start with at any rate. I’m not quite sure of my movements, but I’ll let you know. You’d better address me Poste Restante." "Honeymoon places!" There was a note of longing in her voice. "Well, I suppose I’ve had mine." She thought of the ring, forgot her chagrin and went on mischievously: "As you’re going on your honeymoon I may as well give you your wedding present. Here it is." She put it in his hand and hung back to watch the effect it should have on him. He looked pleased, but to her surprise seemed reluctant to accept it. She broke in on his muttered excuses. "Tommy rot! I saw by your face that you liked it. Hold out your finger." She kissed the ring and also kissed his finger. "How does it go? ... With this ring I thee wed, with this body I thee worship.... There now. It’s on. We’re as good as—no, worse than married! Kiss me, you dear King. I don’t mind your going so very much so long as you’ll be glad to come back." Her lips quivered. "We’ve never been parted before." "What’s three weeks?" said Woolf lightly. "I shall be a gray-haired old woman by the time you come back." "Good Heavens! You’re crying!" "No, I’m not," she denied, hiding her face. "Silly Maggy." He took her in his arms. "Cry afterwards. I’m not gone yet." XXXIII "I’ve brought them back." Maggy had come to restore the borrowed jewels to Chalfont. It was late afternoon of the following day. She was dressed in gray with touches of black, and her face wore a subdued expression. Woolf had left for the Continent by the morning boat train. "You were a brick to lend them," she proceeded. "Didn’t you think Lexie was awfully good?" "Very good indeed," he said. "She isn’t a bit excited. Funny, isn’t it? She used to be so keen once. Now I don’t think she’d mind a bit if she left the stage." "Would you?" "I? I can’t imagine myself anywhere else. This time twenty years, if Maggy Delamere’s still alive, she’ll be capering about in the chorus somewhere, I expect. I hope I shall be dead though," she added pessimistically. "What is the matter with you to-day?" asked Chalfont. "Blue devils. Mr. Woolf’s away. He won’t be back for three weeks. He’s on his honeymoon." Chalfont stared at her. For a moment he thought she was speaking seriously. He could not understand her calm acceptance of such a fact. Then Maggy laughed.