"I wonder whether it would be trespassing too far on your friendship to ask you to pay your promised visit to Vichy to-morrow?" The formality of his English, which one forgot when talking to him face to face, was oddly accentuated by the impersonal tones of the telephone. "I'll motor over with pleasure," said I. The prospect pleased me. It was only sixty kilometres. I was wondering what the deuce I should do with myself all alone. "You're sure it wouldn't be inconvenient? You have no other engagement?" I informed him that, my early morning treatment over, I was free as air. "Besides," said I, "I shall be at a loose end. Lady Auriol's taking the midnight train to Paris." "Oh!" said he. There was a pause. "'Allo!" said I. His voice responded: "In that case, I'll come to Clermont-Ferrand by the first train and see you." "Nonsense," said I. But he would have it his own way. Evidently the absence of Lady Auriol made all the difference. I yielded. "What's the trouble?" I asked. "I'll tell you when I see you," said he. "I don't know the trains, but I'll come by the first. Your _concierge_ will look it up for you. Thanks very much. Good-bye."' "But, my dear fellow----" I began. But I spoke into nothingness. He had rung off. Auriol and I spent a comfortable evening together. There was no question of Lackaday. For her part, she raised none. For mine--why should I disturb her superbly regained balance with idle chatter about our morrow's meeting? We talked of the past glories of the day; of an almost forgotten day of disastrous picnic in the mountains of North Wales, when her twelve-year-old sense of humour detected the artificial politeness with which I sought to cloak my sodden misery; of all sorts of pleasant far-off things; of the war; of what may be called the war-continuation-work in the devastated districts in which she was at present engaged. I reminded her of our fortuitous meetings, when she trudged by my side through the welter of rain and liquid mud, smoking the fag-end of my last pipe of tobacco. "One lived in those days," she said with a full-bosomed sigh. "By the dispensation of a merciful Providence," I said, "one hung on to a strand of existence." "It was fine!" she declared. "It was--for the appropriate adjective," said I, "consult any humble member of the British Army." We had a whole, long evening's talk, which did not end until I left her in the train at Clermont-Ferrand. On our midnight way thither, she said: "Now I know you love me, Tony." "Why now?" I asked. "How many people are there in the world whom you would see off by a midnight train, three or four miles from your comfortable bed?" "Not many," I admitted.