That evening she sent Skene a card on which Union Jack and Tricolor were entwined. She wrote with a sort of exultation: “I wish to be all yours.” Such an outburst must have been caused by something deeper than the paltry bickering of a little old man, or the prospect of meeting a young one with whom she had once passed a few hours of intimacy under the stress of strong emotion. * * * * * The day came. She got her week’s leave. It is one of the victories of women’s entry into ordinary commercial activities of business houses and Government offices, that they have forced some humanity and reason into the mechanical discipline of such places. Having made no plans, she had put her few belongings into one of those black hold-alls that make all French travelers seem countrified, and stood on the platform of the Gare du Nord, waiting. She had dressed herself carefully--more carefully than usual, with hardly a spot of color, and was conscious that every inch of her that was covered showed the finest possible value for the money. Her hands, neck and face had lost nothing in their firmness and pallor. The figure she cut seemed to culminate in the little leather satchel clasped against her fur--as if she were holding her heart in reserve, and defending it at the same time. The train roared into the station, and after a moment’s confusion, she saw Skene coming towards her. She had been wondering fearfully for a moment if he would come, if she would recognize him, if any unforeseen obstacle would arise. When he reached her, she turned up her face and gave him her rare smile. When he slid his hand under her arm and hurried her down the platform to catch one of the few taxis, she pressed ever so little against him. Never in her life had she been happier than in hearing those heavy boots clanking beside her. Now that he had come she knew she was right. Skene was neither exceptionally handsome, brave nor rich--and she would have thought nothing the more of him if he had been. She neither knew nor cared for heroes of fiction, but admired the clean, athletic type of young man just then beginning to be popularized by the cinema. Skene had the looks and bearing of what he was--an average Englishman of the professional classes, who had passed through the successive stages of discomfort, danger, all but death. He had the sure movements, straight glance, and agreeable carelessness begotten of this, grafted on to middle-class standards of manners. Superficially, at any rate, he was more considerate than his nearest French equivalent would have been.