Anthony, having first covered the seat with a convenient newspaper, sank into a chair. He communed with himself. “Lord, I’m wet! How is it that I can be melodramatic as well? I must curb this passion for effect. Still, it kept her off any expressions of gratitude and the like. Good God! Gratitude! It’s not that I want. And what do I want? All. Yes, all! But I must go softly. One must wait.” He shook himself. “And anyhow, you blasted idiot, what chance _can_ you have?” He grew depressed. The door burst open. There was a flurry of skirts. Dora, transfigured, rushed at him as he rose, words pouring from her. Anthony was dazed. He waved hands to stem the flood. Arms were thrown about his neck. Warm lips were pressed to his cheek. Another flurry—and she was gone. Anthony looked after. “If you were your sister, my dear,” said he to himself, “escape would’ve been more difficult.” The door opened again. This time it is Lucia, composed now and more mistress of herself than for days past. With relief, her sense of humour had returned in full strength; there is nothing more steadying than one’s sense of humour. Anthony was still on his feet. She looked first at him and then at the damp pages of the _Telegraph_ covering the chair. She began to laugh. He was well content; the most seductive, the most pleasant sound within his experience. He stood smiling at her. The laughter grew. Then, with an effort, she controlled it. “I’m sorry. Only I couldn’t help it. Really I couldn’t!” Her tone was contrite. “And why should you?” Anthony asked. “But I hope you appreciate my tender care of your cushions.” She seated herself, waving him back to his chair. “Oh, I do! I think it was wonderful of you to—to think about my furniture at a time like this. But then you’re by way of being rather a wonderful person, aren’t you?” “You deceive yourself if you mean that,” said Anthony. “A matter of common sense plus imagination; that’s all. The mixture’s rare, I admit, but there’s no food for wonder in it.” He hardly heard his own words. He found clear thought an effort. He wanted only to be left in peace to look at her and look and look again. He found himself glad, somehow, that to-night she was not in an evening gown. The simplicity of her clothes, perfect though they were, seemed to make her, paradoxically, less remote. She smiled at him. “Now, please, you must tell me all about everything.” Anthony groaned. “Pleeease.” “Must I?” He raised feeble hands. “Of course, you silly person, I don’t really mean ‘everything.’ How could I when you’re so tired, so awfully tired! But you come here all strange and mysterious and dramatic and simply tell us that Archie’s all right. How _can_ one help being curious? Why is he all right? Have you only persuaded them that he didn’t do it? Or have you shown them the person that really did?” “The second,” Anthony said, covertly feasting his eyes. “Who? Who?” She had risen in her excitement.