“Then we’ll fix it. Only you’ll lunch with me. It seems more fitting. When? Where? I have no club. My membership of the Athenæum lapsed twenty years ago. And, even if it hadn’t, the Megatherium—Thackeray’s name for it—is no good for hospitable purposes. Shall we say the Savoy at one-thirty?” “That will suit me admirably,” said the young man. “Good-bye.” They shook hands. Godfrey accompanied him to the terrace. “Have you a taxi or cab waiting?” “I came on the feet which I unworthily possess,” replied Baltazar with a smile. “Tell Sister Baring I looked for her and she was gone.” “I’ll send an orderly to find her, if you like.” Baltazar hesitated for a moment. A quick tenderness checked impetuous impulse. “No, no!” he answered with a smile. “I’ve worried her sufficiently for to-day. She’ll hear from me soon enough.” They shook hands again and he ran down the marble stairs, and, waving a farewell, strode away with the elastic tread of youth. After a while Godfrey hobbled down, and, passing by the tennis courts and through the Japanese garden, arrived at the beech-wood, scene of their first and so many subsequent intimate talks, where he felt sure he should find Marcelle. He saw her, before she realized his approach, sitting on a bench; staring in front of her, her hands listless by her side. On the palm of one of them lay a crumpled ball of a handkerchief. She had been crying. As soon as she heard him she started and, looking round, greeted him with a smile. “I knew I’d get you here,” he said, sitting down by her side. “The long-lost parent has gone. He sent you a message.” He gave its substance. She nodded. “He’s quite right. I need a little time to get used to it.” Godfrey said: “Shall I clear out and leave you alone? Do tell me.” “No, no!” she said quickly. “I want you. I was just feeling dreadfully alone.” “Defenceless?” “What makes you say that?” she asked, alarm in her eyes. For she had been frightened, absurdly frightened, by the swift, sudden force that had impinged on her well-ordered way of life. It had set her wits wandering, her nerves jangling, her emotions dancing a grotesque and unintelligible saraband. Her shoulders still felt the clutch of irresistible fingers. She was sure they would bear black and blue marks for days. The virginal in her shrank from the possible contemplation of them in her mirror. Defenceless was the very word. What uncanny insight had suggested it to Godfrey? In reply, he shrugged his shoulders. Then he said: “That’s how I feel, anyway. And if you want me, I want you. That’s why I’ve ferreted you out. It strikes me we’re more or less in the same boat. What are we going to do?” “I don’t know,” she replied absently.