"I've come back," said she. "Ju-ju, I couldn't stand it. You are bad but you are a lot, lot better than your mother--and Venetia. I'm going to try and put up with you a bit longer--_Ju-Ju_, what makes you look so stiff and funny?" "I don't know," said Jones, passing his hand across his forehead. "I've had a hard day." She looked at him curiously for a moment, then pityingly, then kindly. Then she jumped up, made him sit down on a big couch by the wall, and took her seat beside him. Then she took his hand. "Ju-Ju--why will you be such a fool?" "I don't know," said Jones. The caress of the little jewelled hand destroyed his mental powers. He dared not look at her, just sat staring before him. "They told me all about the coal mine," she went on, "at least Venetia did, and how they all bully-ragged you--Venetia was great on that. Venetia waggled that awful gobbly-Jick head of hers while she was telling me--they're _mad_ over the loss of that coal thing--oh, Ju-Ju, I'm so glad you lost it. It's wicked, I suppose, but I'm glad. That's what made me come back, the way they went on about you. I listened and listened and then I broke out. I said all I've wanted to say for the last six months to Venetia. You know she told me how you came home the other night. I said nothing then, just listened and stored it up. Then, last night, when they all got together about the coal mine I went on listening and storing it up. Blunders was there as well as your mother and Venetia. Blunders said he had called you an ass and that you were. Then I broke out. I said a whole lot of things--well, there it is. So I came back--there were other reasons as well. I don't want to be alone. I want to be cared for--I want to be cared for--when I saw you in Bond Street, yesterday--I--I--I--Ju-Ju, do you care for me?" "Yes," said Jones. "I want to confess--I want to tell you something." "Yes." "If you didn't care for me--if I felt you didn't, I'd--" "Yes." "Kick right over the traces. I would. I couldn't go on as I have been going, lonely, like a lost dog." She raised his fingers and rubbed them along her lips. "You will not be lonely," said the unfortunate man in a muted voice. "You need not be afraid of that." The utter inadequacy of the remark came to him like one of those nightmare recognitions encountered as a rule only in Dreamland. Yet she seemed to find it sufficient, her mind perhaps being engaged elsewhere. "What would you have said if I had run away from you for good?" asked she. "Would you have been sorry?" "Yes--dreadfully." "Are you glad I've come back?" "I am." "Honestly glad?" "Yes." "Really glad?" "Yes." "Truthfully, really, honestly glad?" "Yes." "Well, so am I," said she. She released his hand. "Now go and play me something. I want something soothing after Venetia--play me Chopin's Spianato--we used to be fond of that."