I walked back to my rooms. I walked slowly and pensively, bumping into lamp-posts and pedestrians. It was a relief, when I finally reached Ebury Street, to find Ukridge smoking on my sofa. I was resolved that before he left he should explain what this was all about, if I had to wrench the truth from him. “Hallo, laddie!” he said. “Upon my Sam, Corky, old horse, did you ever in your puff hear of anything so astounding as our meeting like that? Hope you didn’t mind my pretending not to know you. The fact is my position in that house——What the dickens were you doing there, by the way?” “I’m helping Lady Lakenheath prepare her husband’s memoirs.” “Of course, yes. I remember hearing her say she was going to rope in someone. But what a dashed extraordinary thing it should be you! However, where was I? Oh, yes. My position in the house, Corky, is so delicate that I simply didn’t dare risk entering into any entangling alliances. What I mean to say is, if we had rushed into each other’s arms, and you had been established in the old lady’s eyes as a friend of mine, and then one of these days you had happened to make a bloomer of some kind—as you well might, laddie—and got heaved into the street on your left ear—well, you see where I would be. I should be involved in your downfall. And I solemnly assure you, laddie, that my whole existence is staked on keeping in with that female. I _must_ get her consent!” “Her what?” “Her consent. To the marriage.” “The marriage?” Ukridge blew a cloud of smoke, and gazed through it sentimentally at the ceiling. “Isn’t she a perfect angel?” he breathed, softly. “Do you mean Lady Lakenheath?” I asked, bewildered. “Fool! No, Millie.” “Millie? The girl in blue?” Ukridge sighed dreamily.