“It’s so unlike you,” she declared, uncomprehending. “You who do things so swiftly and vividly.” “I must have some sort of papers establishing my identity,” he explained. “My word won’t do. We must wait till there’s a settled government in Russia to which I can apply. I know it’s an unsatisfactory position for both; but it can’t be helped.” He smiled wearily. “You mustn’t reproach me.” “Reproach you—my dearest——?” The idea shocked her. She only had grown impatient of the intangible Russian influences that checked his freedom of action. Sometimes she dreaded them, not knowing how deep or how sinister they might be. Secret agents were sometimes mysteriously assassinated. He laughed at her fears. But what else, she asked herself, could he do but laugh? She was not reassured. The naturalization question settled for an indefinite time, he felt once more in clear water. Easter came and went. “If I don’t move about a little, I shall die,” he said. “Let us move about a lot,” said Olivia. “Let us hire a car and race about Great Britain.” He waxed instantly enthusiastic. She was splendid. Always the audacious one. A car—a little high-powered two-seater. Just they two together. Free of the high road! If they could find no lodgings at inns they could sleep beneath the hedges. They would drive anywhere, losing their way, hitting on towns with delicious unexpectancy. The maddest motor tour that was ever unplanned. In the excitement of the new idea, the disappointment over the prohibited foreign travel vanished from their hearts. Once more they contemplated their vagabondage, with the single-mindedness of children. “We’ll start to-morrow,” he declared. “To-morrow evening is the Rowingtons’ dinner-party,” Olivia reminded him. He confounded Rowington and his dinner-party. Why not send a telegram saying he was down with smallpox? He hated literary dinner-parties. Why should he make an ass of himself in a lion’s skin—just to gratify the vanity of a publisher? Olivia administered the required corrective. “Isn’t it rather a case of the lion putting on an ass’s skin, my dear? Of course we must go.” He laughed. “I suppose we must. Anyway, we’ll start the day after. I’ll see about the car in the morning.” He went out immediately after breakfast, and in a couple of hours returned radiant. He was in luck, having found the high-powered two-seater of his dreams. He overwhelmed her with enthusiastic technicalities. “You beloved infant,” said Olivia. But before they could set out in this chariot of force and speed, something happened. It happened at the dinner-party given by Rowington, the active partner in the great publishing house, in honour of their twice-proved successful author.