Maynard scratched the back of his head. 'Smyth told me,' he said, wondering at the cause of her agitation, 'that Dick and he enlisted together some months ago. By Jove! I remember now. He told me that this American fellow put them up at his rooms in St. James's Square one night. Smyth didn't know who Dick was until they got to France. He was travelling under the name of Sherlock, or Shylock, or Sherwood'---- 'I--I thought Dick was in China.' She wrung her hands nervously. 'You didn't see him?' 'No. That's all I know about him, except that he was transferred to some other battalion than Dinglederry Smyth's.' She went over to a table and took a piece of notepaper from a drawer. 'Mr. Selwyn used to belong to the R.A.C.,' she said quickly. 'Would you do me a favour, Horace dear?' He murmured his desire to be of service in any capacity. Hesitating a moment, she wrote hurriedly: '_4th March 1915_, 2lA PARK WALK. 'DEAR MR. SELWYN,--Will you please come and see me as soon as you can? I am not on night-duty this week.--Yours sincerely, ELISE DURWENT.' She sealed the envelope and handed it to Maynard. 'Please find out from the R.A.C. where he is, and ask them to send this note to him. I am ever so grateful, Horace.' 'I suppose,' he said, looking at the envelope, 'that this means the--the finish of my chances?' She answered the question by wishing him good luck in France, but there was a strange tremulousness in the softly spoken words. He put out his hand shyly. 'Good-night, old girl,' he said, smiling with a sort of rueful boyishness. She took his proffered hand, and then, obeying an impulse, stooped and pressed her burning cheek against it. 'Good-night, Horace,' she said softly. 'I hope you'll come back safe to be a fine husband for some nice girl.' When he had gone, and his footsteps died away, she returned to the table. Burying her face in her hands, she fought back the tears which surged to the surface. Her love for Dick, her own loneliness, a mad joy in the thought of seeing Selwyn again, a motherly pity for Maynard, a fury towards Marian, an incomprehensible yearning--she felt that her heart was bursting, but could not have said herself whether it was with grief or with joy. III. From the time that Austin Selwyn received the note there was nothing else in his mind--as in Elise's--but the coming meeting. As playwrights planning a scene, each went through the encounter in prospect a dozen times, reading into it the play of emotions which was almost certain to dominate the affair. Although completely ignorant of her motive in writing to him, Selwyn invented a hundred different reasons--only to discard them all. Nor was Elise more able to satisfy herself as to the outcome of the meeting. It was not his actions that were difficult to forecast, but her own. Would her dislike of him be intensified? Would she experience again the momentary rapture of that summer afternoon?