She had counted on her morning; on a few hours of the talking women delight in, of tender memories referred to, of future plans discussed. But without a word she got up. "She is very pretty, Fred." Joan Blacker stopped once, looked up at Innistenne. "She may be," he said carelessly. "There is a brick wall named Joan built across my vision, you see." It was her reward--she was satisfied. Jimmie Gore Helmsley's black eyes did not smile at a pair of intruders. He was taking Sybil out in a punt after lunch, with a tea-basket for a picnic. He strolled off now with a last low word to Sybil. "Come to the rose garden. I'll wait there. Bother these people!" Joan Blacker did not fail in her good deed. She said some simple things to Sybil--told her quietly that the Bungalow was not fit for her; that if her mother realized, or heard, it might stop liberty for evermore. "To go back to London," cried Sybil, "to the house in Lancaster Gate, to the dreariness of a dull dinner there. Navotsky was to dance to-night. Besides--Mrs Bellew--" "The servants may tell her that there is a vacant room," said Joan, equably, "otherwise she will not know. And for to-night--we'll take you out somewhere if you like, in London. I warn you your mother does not understand." When Gore Helmsley, attractive to those who admired him in his flannels, strolled back to look for a Sybil who came not, he only saw the dust of a motor on the road at the back of the house. "Miss Chauntsey has gone back to London," said Esmé. "Her mother, I think, telephoned." Gore Helmsley nodded carelessly. But Esmé, looking drearily out across the gardens, trying hard not to think, had made a bitter enemy. She was rung up by Denise Blakeney later. "Yes. Cyril leaves next week. I tell you, Esmé, I am afraid--afraid of when he comes back. Be careful of cross lines. No one will know. Dismiss your maid at once. Come to me here and write to her if you think it best." Esmé hung up the receiver with a sigh. The great scheme was becoming greater, looming before her. But money and liberty and an allowance made it all feasible. A week later Bertie Carteret sailed for South Africa, and on the same day a broad, quiet man left London for a year's shooting. Both thought of their wives as the big steamers began to churn up the water. But one with wistful longing, looking back at a figure on the quay which waved and waved until it was lost, a blur among other figures; and one whose mouth set grimly as he recalled a good-bye in a luxurious dining-room, arms which he had put away from his neck, and an unsteady voice which had hinted of some confession which he would not hear. "Later," said Cyril Blakeney, "later." But his eyes were full of bitter hatred for the thing which, for his name's sake, he meant to do. Some hours after the steamer had left port Marie Leroy was rung up on the telephone.