“It is rather a rotten thing to do,” he thought, “yet....” He looked at the bright, eager face, it would make her happy; he knew that what she said was true—Lady Linden would not oppose Tom Arundel if marriage between Marjorie and himself was out of the question. It would be making the way clear for her: it would be giving her happiness, doing her the greatest service that he could. Of his own sacrifice, his own disappointment he thought not now; realisation of that would come later. At first it seemed to him a mad, a nonsensical scheme, yet it was one that might so easily be carried out. If one doubt was left as to whether he would do it, it was gone the next moment. “Hugh, would you do—would you do this for me?” “There is very little that I wouldn’t do for you, little maid,” he said, “and if I can help you to your happiness I am going to do it.” She crept closer to him; she laid her cheek against his shoulder, and held his hand in hers. “Tell me just what you will say.” “I haven’t thought that out yet.” “But you must.” “I know. You see, if I say I am married, naturally she will ask me a few questions.” “When she gets—gets her breath!” Marjorie said with a laugh; it was the first time she had laughed, and he liked to hear it. “The first will probably be, How long have I been married?” “Do you remember you used to come to Marlbury to see me when I was at school at Miss Skinner’s?” “Rather!” “That was three years ago. Supposing you married about then?” “Fine,” Hugh said. “I married three years ago. What month?” “June,” she said; “it’s a lovely month!” “I was married in June, nineteen hundred and eighteen, my lady,” said Hugh. “Where at, though?” “Why, Marlbury, of course!” “Of course! Splendid place to get married in, delightful romantic old town!” “It is a hateful place, but that doesn’t matter,” said Marjorie. She seemed to snuggle up a little closer to him, her lips were rippling with smiles, her bright eyes saw freedom and love, her heart was very warm with gratitude to this man who was helping her. But she could not guess, how could she, how in spite of the laughter on his lips there was a great ache and a feeling of emptiness at his heart. “So now we have it all complete,” he said. “I was married in June, nineteen eighteen at Marlbury; my wife and I did not get on, we parted. She had a temper, so had I, a most unhappy affair, and there you are!” He laughed. “All save one thing,” Marjorie said. “Goodness, what have I forgotten?” “Only the lady’s name.” “You are right. She must have a name of course, something nice and romantic—Gladys something, eh?” Marjorie shook her head. “Clementine,” suggested Hugh. “No, won’t do, eh? Now you put your thinking cap on and invent a name, something romantic and pretty. Let’s hear from you, Marjorie.” “Do you like—Joan Meredyth?” she said.