“You’re awfully chirpy, considering what a beast of a raw, rainy day it’s been,” observed Helen. “Is it bad?” said Darcy blandly. “I suppose it is, but I hardly noticed.” “Another British mail in, I suppose,” conjectured Maud. “That always brightens her up.” “If there is I haven’t got anything yet,” answered Darcy, who had neglected to consult the morning papers for the incoming steamship entries. Her myth involved so many supporting lies, that it was difficult and ticklish to keep it properly bolstered up. “Has she told you about the Britisher, Gloria?” asked Helen. “Monty Veyze? Of course. I know him.” “You know him!” cried Helen and Maud in a breath. “What’s he like?” “Oh, he’s all that Darcy thinks he is,” smiled Gloria. “It’s years since I’ve seen him. To put it Englishwise, he was by way of being horribly smart, then. Just where is he now, Darcy?” “Near the Siberian frontier,” said Darcy shortly. There was a gleam in Gloria’s eye which she neither understood nor liked. “In one of the twenty-two sub-wars that signalize the universal peace, I suppose,” laughed the actress. “Or is it twenty-nine.” “I thought long engagements weren’t the thing in England,” said Maud, musingly. “Particularly in these uncertain times when—when anything might happen.” “I think that’s pretty horrid of you, Maud,” retorted Darcy with carefully assumed sadness, smothering a private and murderous wish that “anything” would happen to her home-made fiancé. “I don’t mean it that way. But if I were really engaged to an Englishman on active service, I’d go over and marry him, on his very first leave.” Casual though Maud’s “really” sounded, it brought red to Darcy’s cheeks and a livelier gleam to Gloria’s eyes. The latter turned to Darcy. “Why not tell them?” “Tell them what?” inquired the girl, staring at her mentor in amaze and alarm. “All about Monty. The whole thing. You know, I claim a partnership in him.” By a mighty effort Darcy suppressed a gasp. What was Gloria up to, now? “Go on,” the actress urged. “Tell them.” “I-I can’t,” stammered Darcy, which was exactly what the feminine Macchiavelli on the divan was maneuvering for. “Shy?” said she, sweetly. “Very well, then. I’ll tell them. May I?” Receiving a dubious nod, Gloria proceeded: “Sir Montrose Veyze has finally got his leave. He’ll be here about the middle of October.” (That “gone” feeling came over Darcy.) “By the 15th?” asked Helen eagerly. “In time for our wedding?” “No. That’s the unfortunate part. We hoped we could make it a triple wedding. That’s the little surprise Darcy has been waiting to spring on you.” “Can’t he make it?” asked Maud. The notion of a titled adjunct to her marriage appealed strongly to her practical mind. “Not quite. The best he can do is the 16th. Possibly later. So they’ll be married quite quietly from my apartment and have a month’s honeymoon before he goes back.”