He turned swiftly aside so that she should not see his face. “Naturally I’ll miss you. Miss the three of you. I’m human. But, on the other hand, I’m used to being alone. I’m a solitary by temperament.” Then he flashed round on her. “Don’t you worry about me. I’ll have my hands too full to be lonely. I’ll have a real man’s job to get through.” In his vehement way he sketched the kind of work that lay before him, went off into picturesque reminiscence, unfolded some of the plans he had already made for the conquest of those in power in disaffected districts. Anyone but Marcelle he would have convinced of the whole-hearted and enthusiastic anticipation of his mission. But a woman whom a man loves is apt to know him even better than the woman who loves him. A suspicion, vague but insistent, began to haunt her. Presently she gave words to it. “Have Godfrey’s affairs anything to do with this sudden decision of yours?” He assumed a puzzled look. “Godfrey’s affairs?” “Yes. The Donnithorpe business.” He laughed. “My dear, we’re dealing in high international politics. What on earth can a boy’s calf love have to do with it?” “You’ve never told me what happened at Waterloo. Nor did Godfrey.” “I simply pulled them apart. Sent Lady Edna home, and despatched Godfrey to France a day before his time. That’s all over.” “But you met Mr. Donnithorpe. Quong Ho——” “Oh yes, I met Donnithorpe. That’s what saved the situation. He expected to find Godfrey. Found me instead.” He grinned in the most disarming manner. “A comedy situation. And off he went defeated.” He took her hand, apparently in the gayest of moods. “It’s only a woman,” said he, “that could throw a bridge between Waterloo station and the interior of China.” She let the question drop; but the suspicion remained, and every minute that passed, until the ormolu clock on the drawing-room mantelpiece gave her the signal for conventional retirement, converted it into certainty. He walked with her as usual to the door of her block of flats. On parting she found tremulous utterance for the sense of utter forlornness which she had been trying all the evening to formulate: “What’s to become of me when you’re gone?”