“My dear,” she cried, “in you lies salvation! Cecil Turnbury, who dances like an angel, rang me up this morning to dine and wine, do a show, trek on to Ciro’s, and come home with the milk from a night club. I know it will come to the old man’s ears if I go alone with Cecil; you must come, too. I’ll ring up Cecil now, and tell him to rope in a cheery soul for you.” For a moment or two she had feebly protested; she couldn’t dance—her husband—she must get back. “Tripe!” remarked Joan, elegantly, and forthwith rang up Cecil. And he had arrived at seven-thirty with Jack Denver. From the outset of the evening it was quite clear what was going to happen. Joan, having taken the possible wind out of father’s sails, devoted herself exclusively to Cecil, leaving Jack Denver and Hilda to carry on their share of the good work. And Hilda, starved, though she hardly realized it, for the companionship of men of her own age, had the night of her life. There are nights which stand out like milestones in every life, and almost always are they impromptu. And there had been singularly few for Hilda Garling. But in those eight hours she realized fully for the first time all that she had missed in marrying Hubert. Jack Denver was thirty and in the Army. Moreover, he was a man’s man all through. London saw him but rarely, except when he was playing polo at Ranelagh or Hurlingham; he found that London life interfered with his eye. But in addition to being mad on every form of sport he was—without being clever—exceedingly intelligent. He was interested in politics and life generally; he read with discrimination. He could talk amusingly, and, most precious of all gifts, listen sympathetically. And that night, having gone merely to please Cecil and swearing he must be in bed by one, he found himself wishing at half-past three that it could go on for another four hours. From the time they arrived at Ciro’s, it had been merely two duets. From Ciro’s they had driven to the night club in two taxis—Joan, being quite without shame, had insisted on that. And during the drive Jack Denver tried to take stock of matters. That Hilda was married he knew; that her husband was a bit of a rum ’un he knew also from Joan. But there was another thing also which he knew, and that was that never in the course of his life had he been so powerfully attracted by any woman before. Small wonder. Hilda—enjoying herself to the hilt—looked utterly lovely. But it wasn’t only a question of looks; she was so startlingly alive. The stagnation of months had boiled over in an immense reaction. And if there was one thing which Jack Denver worshipped, it was vitality. They left the night club at half-past three, and once more two taxis were requisitioned. “Have you enjoyed yourself?” he asked quietly as they drove off. “It’s been heaven!” she answered. Which, taken as a conversational effort, would not have won a prize. But when the atmosphere is electrical, it doesn’t much matter what is said.