"I am. I owe it to Queen's memory to take her place if I can. Of course I'm no dancer, but in other things I expect I can make myself useful." G.J. replied with equal mildness: "You aren't going to mix yourself up with that crowd again--after all you've been through! The Pageant business isn't good enough for you, Con, and you know it. You know it's odious." She murmured: "I feel it's my duty. I feel I owe it to Queen. It's a sort of religion with me, I expect. Each person has his own religion, and I doubt if one's more dogmatic than another." He was grieved; he had a sense almost of outrage. He hated to picture Concepcion subduing herself to the horrible environment of the Pageant enterprise. But he said nothing more. The silence resumed. They might have conversed, with care, about the inquest, or about the funeral, which was to take place at the Castle, in Cheshire. Silence, however, suited them best. "Also I thought you needed repose," said G.J. when Concepcion broke the melancholy enchantment by rising to look for cigarettes. "I must be allowed to work," she answered after a pause, putting a cigarette between her teeth. "I must have something to do--unless, of course, you want me to go to the bad altogether." It was a remarkable saying, but it seemed to admit that he was legitimately entitled to his critical interest in her. "If I'd known that," he said, suddenly inspired, "I should have asked you to take on something for _me_." He waited; she made no response, and he continued: "I'm secretary of my small affair since yesterday. The paid secretary, a nice enough little thing, has just run off to the Women's Auxiliary Corps in France and left me utterly in the lurch. Just like domestic servants, these earnest girl-clerks are, when it comes to the point! No imagination. Wanted to wear khaki, and no doubt thought she was doing a splendid thing. Never occurred to her the mess I should be in. I'd have asked you to step into the breach. You'd have been frightfully useful." "But I'm no girl-clerk," Concepcion gently and carelessly protested. "Well, she wasn't either. I shouldn't have wanted you to be a typist. We have a typist. As a matter of fact, her job needed a bit more brains than she'd got. However--" Another silence. G.J. rose to depart. Concepcion did not stir. She said softly: "I don't think anybody realises what Queen's death is to me. Not even you." On her face was the look of sacrifice which G.J. had seen there as they talked together in Queen's boudoir during the raid. He thought, amazed: "And they'd only had about twenty-four hours together, and part of that must have been spent in making up their quarrel!" Then aloud: