Her heart began to throb in anticipation of Ronnie. Passing a mirrored window, she glanced at her reflection, and saw herself well turned-out, _en beauté_. The sight gave her keenest satisfaction. She walked on, no longer fearful but excited--violently, tremulously excited--till she came to Piccadilly; and turned right-handed toward St. James's Street. But the clock of St. James's Palace told her that it still lacked more than a quarter of an hour to their rendezvous. She turned back again; stood a full minute in admiration of Rowland Ward's trophies; debated with herself whether she should drop into Fortnum & Mason's or dawdle at the book-counter in Hatchard's; decided against both schemes; lingered to examine the Harrison Fisher drawings in the display-window of "Nash's Magazine"; examined the diamond watch at her wrist; and nearly bolted down the Little Arcade into the narrow Londonishness of Jermyn Street. Here again she felt the need for courage; felt as though the whole place--the church under the tree, and the public-house at the corner, the shops and the restaurants--held spies. The street, after broad Piccadilly, seemed furtive, sunless, a street of danger. She wanted to avert her head from the passers-by. 2 By the time Hector Brunton's self-possessed wife reached the dark-green Adams door of 127b Jermyn Street, she was as nervous as any other woman in the same equivocal position. But Ronnie's name-plate, the sedateness of the house, and above all the trim gentleman--obviously a retired butler--who answered her tremulous ringing, did more than a little to restore her confidence. "Mr. Cavendish? Mr. Cavendish is at home, madam. He is expecting guests." (Aliette could have blessed Moses Moffatt for that final "s.") "Allow me to show you the way up, madam." She followed the restorer of confidence up two dark flights of well-carpeted stairs; and found herself on a half-landing. The white door on the half-landing was just ajar. "Whom shall I announce, madam?" asked the trim gentleman. Aliette hesitated the fraction of a second before replying: "Mrs. Brunton, Mrs. Hector Brunton." Moses Moffatt opened the white door, and they passed into the hall of Ronnie's flat. Automatically Aliette noticed--and admired--the black grandfather's clock, the one engraving, the beige wall-paper. Then her cicerone knocked on polished mahogany; and a voice, Ronnie's voice, called, "Come in." Moses Moffatt opened the second door; announced the visitor in his best style; and withdrew. They heard the click of his final exit as they faced one another--she still in the doorway, he at the tea-table by the fireplace. For a moment, social poise deserted them both; for a moment they could only stare--brown eyes into blue, blue eyes into brown. Then, her sense of humor conquering shyness, Aliette said: "You _were_ expecting me, weren't you?"