She was aroused to consciousness of external things by a husky voice addressing her from somewhere above her head. The cab had stopped at Connie's house in Bryanston Square. She descended, handed to the man the first coin in her purse that her fingers happened to grasp. He looked at it, said that he was sorry he had not change for a sovereign. She waved her hand vaguely, deaf to his words. The cabman, with a clear conscience, whipped up his horse smartly and drove off. A figure on the doorstep raised his hat. “How delightful of you to arrive at the very moment, Miss Hardacre! I am summoned back to America. I sail to-morrow. I was calling on the chance of being able to bid you good-bye.” Norma collected her scattered wits and recognised Theodore Weever. She looked at him full in the eyes. Her lips were parted; her breath came fast. He stretched out his hand to press the electric button, so as to gain admittance to the house. She touched his arm, restraining his action, and still stared at him. “Wait,” she said at last. “I have something to say to you.” “I am honoured,” he replied in his imperturbable way. “Have you found your decorative wife, Mr. Weever?” A sudden light shone lambently in his pale, expressionless blue eyes. “Am I to understand that I can find her on Mrs. Deering's doorstep?” “If you look hard enough,” said Norma. He took her hand and shook it with the air of a man concluding a bargain. “I felt sure of it,” he said. “I intended from the first to marry you. I shall ever be your most devoted servant.'” “I make one condition,” she said. “Name it.” “You don't enter this house, and I sail with you to-morrow.” “Certainly.” “What train shall I catch and from what station shall I start?” “The ten o'clock from Waterloo.” She rang the bell. “May I trouble you to book my passage?” “It will be my happiness.” “_Au revoir_,” she said, holding out her hand. He raised his hat and walked away briskly. The door opened, and Norma entered the house. Chapter XXVIII--THE WORD OF ALINE WHAT she wrote to him is no great matter. Her letter, which he opened on coming down to breakfast the next morning, filled many pages. It was a rhapsody of passionate love and self-abasement, with frantic appeals for forgiveness. In its cowardice there was something horribly piteous. Jimmie read it beneath the high north window of the studio, his back turned towards Aline, who was seated at the breakfast-table at the other end. For a long, long while he stood there, quite still, holding the letter in his hand. Aline, in wonder, stole up quietly and touched his arm. When he turned, she saw that his face was ashen-grey, like a dead man's.