It was not an apartment which shone in the merciless grey light of early morning. At such an hour you saw the mark of the cleaner’s vacuum-brush--the discolourations where an amateur varnisher had endeavoured to renovate the chipped chairs--the thinness of the carpet here and there, and, most appalling of all, the blatant artificiality of the “Gloire de Dijon” roses which Mrs. Yale had brought back from Ostend with her the previous year. Yvonne had taken a seat by the window and was sitting on it sideways, one arm thrown across the back and the other twisting and untwisting a piece of loose embroidery upon her kimono. She was thankful, at that moment, that her mother was a heavy sleeper and had not been aroused by the summons. Yvonne Yale hoped that she was a dutiful daughter. There were times when she came perilously near being glad that she was not. This was a moment when the presence of her mother would have sent her to her room. It was good to be here alone, in the silence and in the sweet light of the early day, to think this problem over--for Talham had become a problem. A fortnight ago, she would have dismissed his proposal with a laugh--and found relief in the sight of his disappearing back. But now, this tall, brown man, with his obvious sincerity, his interminable speeches, his earnestness, which verged upon pomposity, had taken a place with her. He filled a niche no other man had occupied, could occupy, to do Talham justice, for Nature does not create duplicates of his quality. Exactly where was that niche? This speculation puzzled her. If she could have answered that question after long deliberation and self-analysis, the problem was a problem no longer. Where did he stand? At that moment of time she had no feeling of love, as young people understand love, no quickening of the pulse at his approach, no blotting out of her soul’s sun at his departure--no gnawing ache or unsatisfied voidance of soul at his continued absence. Indeed, she had none of the conventional symptoms, and might be excused the belief that, so far as love was concerned, there was no bond between Talham and her. And yet---- She walked to the French windows and, opening them, stepped out on to the little stone balcony. She looked up and down the street; there was nobody in sight; it would be little short of a social crime for any of the inhabitants of Upper Curzon Street to be seen abroad at that hour, save in evening dress. Insensibly, she found herself looking long, and a little wistfully, in the direction which she knew Talham must have taken. He was something more to her than a friend, though he was not even a friend in the accepted sense. The confidences, which mark the growth of friendship, had been all one-sided. It had been Talham who had talked--be sure of that. She had listened excellently. Talham’s passion was an inspiration, a thing born of a momentary glance--love at first sight, though the term is hateful.