“Madam,” replied Quong Ho, with a low bow. “As the Italians say, it will be a thousand years until I have the honour to avail myself of so precious a privilege.” “We must fix something up soon, then—one day next week.” She shook hands with Marcelle, nodded to the others, and went away wreathed in smiles. Quong Ho followed her with his eyes; then to Godfrey: “I have never seen a more beauteous and worshipful lady. One might say she was one of the goddesses so vividly described by Publius Virgilius Maro.” “Your taste seems to be impeccable, sir,” replied Godfrey. In the train, on the homeward journey, Marcelle, who was sitting by Godfrey’s side—Quong Ho sat opposite reading an evening paper—said to him: “You seem to be great friends with Lady Edna Donnithorpe.” “The best,” said he. “Do you usually let her know when you’re coming up to town?” Godfrey reflected for the fraction of a second. Lady Edna had certainly committed the unprecedented act of giving herself away. Frankness was therefore the best policy. “Sometimes I do,” he replied innocently. “On the off chance of her being able to give me a cup of tea. It’s only once in a blue moon that she can, for she’s always all over the place.” “She’s a very beautiful woman, my dear.” “Your taste is as perfect as Quong Ho’s.” Quong Ho, hearing his name, looked with enquiring politeness over the top of his newspaper. “Miss Baring and I were talking of Lady Edna.” “Ah!” said Quong Ho, with a very large smile. Before they parted, on reaching Churton Towers, Marcelle put her hand on Godfrey’s shoulder. “Perhaps I oughtn’t to have asked you that question in the train—I had no right——” He interrupted her with his boyish laugh. “You dear old thing! You have every right to cross-question me on my wicked doings. Haven’t I adopted you as a sort of young mother? Iolanthe. Or the Paphian one which Quong Ho was gassing about. Now, look here. You just come to me in a rosy cloud whenever you like, and I’ll tell you everything.” “Swear it?” “I swear it.” He kissed her finger-tips, and she went away half-reassured. But she was sufficiently in the confidence of the Baltazars, father and son, to know that, for both of them, Lady Edna Donnithorpe was but a recent acquaintance. And to her the boy was “Godfrey,” and his presence in London without her knowledge a matter of surprise. A few days later came the order for Godfrey to be transferred to an orthopædic hospital, where he should learn the new art of walking with an artificial foot. He parted from her with reiterated vows of undying affection. From his Iolanthe mother the secrets of his heart would never be hidden. If she wanted a real good time, she would chuck the nursing—Heaven knew she had done her bit in the war—and come and be a real mother and keep house for him. She smiled through her tears. “Preposterous child!” she called him.