It was the pet name he had for her those ages ago in the Kruysabel. At the sound of it, spoken as she spoke, all that lost Peace-time ease arose ghostly before them. He vented his indignation against Fate by picking up her basket and flinging it into the night, where it crashed softly among earth and leaves. The gesture delighted her. It was the old Georges, the real “young master” of first love. She had been terribly frightened by his first greeting, that meek “It is thou!” so unlike him, that he had uttered. He pleased her still more when he went on: “If that’s your bell, you’d better go. Don’t get caught in this sacred box, whatever you do!” “Tell me where,” she whispered. “I’ll find a place and let you know. I must get out of here. If not, I’ll burst myself as I have bursted so many Bosches. Where do you live?” She told him, pressed a kiss on his lips, and was gone in a flash, quiet, confident, alert. She was herself again. The journey back to the rendezvous in the lorry was noisy and amusing. A score or two of young women, mainly at the minx stage of unattachment, chattered and squabbled, mimicked and raved. Madeleine sat in a corner unheeding. From the rendezvous home she took no account of time, nor place, could not have said by which street she passed, or at what hour she sat down to the Petit’s supper. They were rather nicer than usual to her that night, feeling perhaps that she was a credit to them--for the charitable fête had been discussed from every possible point of view in that quarter of shabby gentility, and every one in the block of flats knew that the Petits’ lodger had taken part. Madame Petit had seen to that. But Madeleine was not responsive--wrapped herself in a brown study--or was it a golden dream?--and retired early to her room. * * * * * The next day she was the same--quiet, polite, but detached, went to the office as usual, returned at the same hour, replied to questions in monosyllables, went to bed early. Monsieur Petit began to have his suspicions--could it be that the young woman had fallen in love (“made a friend” was the expression he used to his wife) at the fête? The next morning, as they sipped coffee in their several déshabillés, there came a knock on the door. A message! Monsieur Petit, who took it in, handed it to Madeleine through the two inches that she opened her door. He dressed hurriedly, agog with excitement. The hour at which she usually left for the office passed, and she did not appear. Finally, she did leave her room, at nearly ten o’clock, dressed in her best, carrying her hold-all and a hat-box. “Good-bye,” she said. “I have left everything in order and the week’s money on the dressing-table.” Monsieur Petit stammered, “But why?” Madeleine’s eyes gleamed in such a way that he stood aside to let her pass. “Because I am leaving,” she said. “Make my adieux to Madame. She is occupied, I know!”