"I must see her--I cannot bear it," he cried to himself. And late at night he wrote to Denzil--it was just that he should do this. "My wife is going to have a baby--if only it should be a son, then it will not so much matter if both of us are killed, at least the family will be saved, and be able to carry oh." He tried to make the letter cordial. Denzil had behaved with the most perfect delicacy throughout, he must admit, and although they had met once and exchanged several letters, not the faintest allusion to the subject of their talk in the library at Brook Street had ever been made by him. Denzil had indeed acted and written as though such knowledge between them did not exist. He--Denzil--in these last seven weeks had been extremely occupied, and while his forces were concentrated upon the exhilarating preparations for war, it would happen in rare moments before sleep claimed him at night that he would let his thoughts conjure a waking dream, infinitely, mystically sweet. And every pulse would thrill with ecstasy, and then his will would banish it, and he would think of other subjects. He could not face the marvel of his emotions at this period, nor dwell upon the romantically exciting aspect of some things. He was up in London upon equipment business on the very Saturday that John got leave, and he was due to dine at the Carlton with Verisschenzko who had that day arrived on vital matters bent. As they came into the hall, a man stopped to talk to the Russian, and Denzil's eyes wandered over the unnumerous and depressed looking company collected waiting for their parties to arrive. War had even in those early Autumn days set its grim seal upon this festive spot. People looked rather ashamed of being seen and no one smiled. He nodded to one or two friends, and then his glance fell upon a beautiful, slim, brown-haired girl, sitting quietly waiting in an armchair by the restaurant steps. She wore a plain black frock, but in her belt one huge crimson clove carnation was unostentatiously tucked. "What a lovely creature!" his thoughts ran, and Verisschenzko turning from his acquaintance that moment, he said to him as they started to advance: "Stepan, if you want to see something typically English and perfectly exquisite, look at that girl in the armchair opposite where the band used to be. I wonder who she is?" "What luck!" cried Verisschenzko. "That is your cousin, Amaryllis Ardayre--come along!" And in a second Denzil found himself being introduced to her, and being greeted by her with interested cordiality, as befitted their cousinly relationship. But Verisschenzko, whose eyes missed nothing, remarked that under his sunburn, Denzil had grown suddenly very pale. Amaryllis was enchanted to see her friend, the Russian. John had gone to the telephone, it appeared--and yes, they were dining alone--and, of course, she was sure John would love to amalgamate parties, it was so nice of Verisschenzko to think of it! There was John now.