“Thank goodness that’s over,” said Triona. She echoed with a sigh: “Yes, thank goodness.” “All the bores of the earth.” “Did you have a talk with Colonel Onslow?” she asked. “The biggest of the lot. I’m sick to death of the Caucasus,” he added with unusual irritation. “I wish I had never been near it. I hate these specially selected dinner parties of people you don’t want to meet and will never meet again.” He took her hand, which was limp and unresponsive. “Did you have a rotten time, too?” “I wish we hadn’t gone,” she replied, withdrawing her hand under the pretext of pulling her cloak closer round her shoulders. He rolled and lit a cigarette and smoked gloomily. At last he said with some impatience: “Of course, I didn’t mention the little episode with the British Force. It would have been out of the picture. Besides, nothing very much happened. It was a stupid thing to do—I had no right. That’s why I took an assumed name—John Briggs.” “And you used it when you landed in England. Mr. Rowington told me.” “Of course, dear. Alexis Triona, chauffeur, would have been absurd, wouldn’t it?” He turned to her with the old eagerness. This time it was she who thrust out a caressing hand, suddenly feeling a guilty horror of the doubts that had beset her. “I wish you would tell me everything about yourself—the details you think so unimportant. Then I wouldn’t be so taken aback as I was this evening, when Captain Wedderburn called me Mrs. Briggs.” “I’ll write you a supplementary volume,” said he, “and it shall be entitled _Through Love and Sunshine_.” The ring in his voice consoled her. He drew her close to him and they spoke little till they reached their house. There, in the dining-room, he poured out a stiff whisky-and-soda and drank it off at a gulp. She uttered a startled, “My dear!” at the unusual breach of abstemious habit. “I’m dog-tired,” said he. “And I’ve things to do before I go to bed. Don’t wait for me.” “What things?” “To-night has given me an idea for a story. I must get it, dear, and put it down; otherwise—you know—I shan’t sleep.” She protested. His brain would be fresher in the morning. Such untimely artistic accouchment had, indeed, happened several times before, and, unless given its natural chances had occasioned a night of unrest; but never before had there been this haggardness in his face and eyes. Again the doubts assailed her. Something that evening had occurred to throw him off his balance. “If anything’s worrying you, dear, do tell me,” she urged, her clasp on the lapels of his dress-coat and her eyes searching his. He took her wrists, kissed her, and laughed, as she thought, uneasily. Worries? He hadn’t an anxiety in the world. But this idea—it was the germ of something big. He must tackle it then and there. Led, his arm around her body, to the door, she allowed herself to be convinced. “Don’t be too long.” “And you go to sleep. You must be tired.”