"No d.a.m.n fear," returned Bill. "Let's blow the lot while we're about it. I'm going back to-morrow. . . ."

Then Vane pushed past them, with that brief snapshot of a pair of lives photographed on his brain. And it would have effaced itself as quickly as it had come, but for the very new wedding ring he had seen on the girl's left hand--so new that to conceal it with a glove was simply not to be thought of.

Money--money--money; was there no getting away from it?

"Its value will not be measured by material things. It will leave nothing. And yet it will have everything, and whatever one takes from it, it will still have, so rich will it be. . . ." And as the words of Oscar Wilde came to his mind Vane laughed aloud.

"This is London, my lad," he soliloquised. "London in the twentieth century. We've a very nice war on where a man may develop his personality; fairy tales are out of date."

He strolled on past the Ritz--his mind still busy with the problem.

Joan wanted to marry money; Joan had to marry money. At least he had gathered so. He had asked Margaret to marry him; she had said that in time she would--if he still wanted her. At least he had gathered so.

Those were the major issues.

The minor and more important one--because minor ones have a way of influencing the big fellows out of all proportion to their size--was that he had asked Joan to tea.

He sighed heavily and turned up Half Moon Street. Whatever happened afterwards he had his duty as a host to consider first. He decided to go in and talk to the worthy Mrs. Green, and see if by any chance that stalwart pillar would be able to provide a tea worthy of the occasion.

Mrs. Green had a way with her, which seemed to sweep through such bureaucratic absurdities as ration cards and food restrictions. Also, and perhaps it was more to the point, she had a sister in Devonshire who kept cows.

"Mrs. Green," called Vane, "come up and confer with me on a matter of great importance. . . ."

With a wild rush Binks emerged from below as if shot from a catapult--to be followed by Mrs. Green wiping her hands on her ap.r.o.n.

"A most important affair, Mrs. Green," continued Vane, when he had let himself into his rooms, and pacified Binks temporarily with the squeaky indiarubber dog. "Only you can save the situation. . . ."

Mrs. Green intimated by a magnificent gesture that she was fully prepared to save any situation.

"I have visitors for tea, or rather, to be correct--a visitor. A lady to comfort me--or perhaps torment me--as only your s.e.x can." His eyes suddenly rested on Margaret's photo, and he stopped with a frown. Mrs.

Green's motherly face beamed with satisfaction. Here was a Romance with a capital R, which was as dear to her kindly heart as a Mary Pickford film.

"I'm sure I hope you'll be very happy, sir," she said.

"So do I, Mrs. Green--though I've a shrewd suspicion, I shall be profoundly miserable." He resolutely turned his back on the photo.

"I'm playing a little game this afternoon, most motherly of women.

Incidentally it's been played before--but it never loses its charm or--its danger. . . ." He gave a short laugh. "My first card is your tea. Toast, Mrs. Green, covered with b.u.t.ter supplied by your sister in Devonshire. Hot toast in your priceless m.u.f.fin dish--running over with b.u.t.ter: and wortleberry jam. . . . Can you do this great thing for me?"

Mrs. Green nodded her head. "The b.u.t.ter only came this morning, Mr.

Vane, sir. And I've got three pounds of wortleberry jam left. . . ."

"Three pounds should be enough," said Vane after due deliberation.

"And then I've got a saffron cake," went on the worthy woman. "Fresh made before it was sent on by my sister. . . ."

"Say no more, Mrs. Green. We win--hands down--all along the line. Do you realise that fair women and brave men who venture out to tea in London to-day have to pay half a crown for a small dog biscuit?" Vane rubbed his hands together. "After your tea, and possibly during it--I shall play my second card--Binks. Now I appeal to you--Could any girl with a particle of natural feeling consent to go on living away from Binks?"

The Accursed Thing emitted a mournful hoot, as Binks, hearing his name spoken, raised his head and looked up at his master. His tail thumped the floor feverishly, and his great brown eyes glowed with a mute inquiry. "To walk, or not to walk"--that was the question. The answer was apparently in the negative, for the moment at any rate, and he again returned to the attack.

"You see my guile, Mrs. Green," said Vane. "Softened by toast, floating in Devonshire b.u.t.ter and covered with wortleberry jam; mellowed by saffron cake--Binks will complete the conquest. Then will come the crucial moment. No one, not even she, can part me from my dog. To have Binks--she must have me. . . . What do you think of it--as a game only, you know?"

Mrs. Green laughed. "I surely do hope you're successful, my dear," she said, and she laid a motherly hand on his arm. In moments of extreme feeling she sometimes reverted to the language of her fathers, with its soft West Country burr. . . . "When Green come courtin' me, he just tuk me in tu his arms, and give me a great fat little kiss. . . ."

"And, by Jove, Mrs. Green, he was a d.a.m.n lucky fellow to be able to do it," cried Vane, taking the kindly old hand in both his own. "If I wasn't afraid of him coming for me with a broomstick, I'd do the same myself. . . ."

She shook a reproving finger at him from the door, and her face was wreathed in smiles. "You ring when you want the tea, Mr. Vane, sir,"

she said, "and I'll bring it up to you. . . ."

She closed the door, and Vane heard the stairs creaking protestingly as she descended. And not for the first time did he thank his lucky stars that Fate had put him into such hands when he left Oxford. . . .

For a while he stood staring at the door with a slight frown, and then he turned to Binks.

"I wonder, young fellow my lad," he muttered. "I wonder if I'm being the most arrant blackguard!"

He wandered restlessly round the room taking odd books from one table and putting them on another, only to replace them in their original positions on the return journey. He tidied up the golf clubs and a bundle of polo sticks, and pitched the boxing gloves under a settee in the corner from which Binks promptly retrieved them. In fact, he behaved as men will behave when they're waiting for the unknown--be it the answer of a woman, or zero hour at six thirty. And at last he seemed to realise the fact. . . .

"Oh! h.e.l.l, Binks," he laughed. "I've got it bad--right where the boxer puts the sleep dope. . . . I think I'll just go and wash my hands, old boy; they strike me as being unpleasantly excited. . . ."

But when he returned Binks was still exhaling vigorously at a hole in the wainscot, behind which he fancied he had detected a sound. With the chance of a mouse on the horizon he became like Gamaliel, and cared for none of these things. . . .

A taxi drove up to the door, and Vane threw down the book he was pretending to read, and listened with his heart in his mouth. Even Binks, scenting that things were afoot, ceased to blow, and c.o.c.ked his head on one side expectantly. Then he growled, a low down, purring growl, which meant that strangers were presuming to approach his domain and that he reserved his judgment. . . .

"Shut up, you fool," said Vane, as he sprang across the room to the door, which at once decided the question in Binks's mind. Here was evidently an enemy of no mean order who dared to come where angels feared to tread when he was about. He beat Vane by two yards, giving tongue in his most approved style. . . .

"Down, old man, down," cried Vane, as he opened the door--but Binks had to justify his existence. And so he barked twice at the intruder who stood outside, watching his master with a faint smile. True the second bark seemed in the nature of an apology; but d.a.m.n it, one must do something. . . .

"You've come," said Vane, and with the sight of her every other thought left his head. "My dear--but it's good of you. . . ."

"Didn't you expect me?" she asked coming into the room. Still with the same faint smile, she turned to Binks. "Hullo, old fellow," she said.

"You sure have got a great head on you." She bent over him, and put her hand on the browny-black patch behind his ears. . . . Binks growled; he disliked familiarity from people he did not know.

"Look out, Joan," said Vane nervously. "He's a little funny with strangers sometimes."

"Am I a stranger, old chap?" she said, taking off her glove, and letting her hand hang loosely just in front of his nose, with the back towards him. Vane nodded approvingly, though he said nothing; as a keen dog lover it pleased him intensely to see that the girl knew how to make friends with them. And not everyone--even though they know the method to use with a doubtful dog--has the nerve to use it. . . .

For a moment Binks looked at her appraisingly; then he thrust forward a cold wet nose and sniffed once at the hand in front of him. His mind was made up. Just one short, welcoming lick, and he trotted back to his hole in the wainscot. Important matters seemed to him to have been neglected far too long as it was. . . .

"Splendid," said Vane quietly. "The other member of the firm is now in love with you as well. . . ."

She looked at Vane in silence, and suddenly she shivered slightly. "I think," she said, "that we had better talk about rather less dangerous topics. . . ." She glanced round her, and then went to the window and stood looking out into the bright sunlight. "What topping rooms you've got," she said after a moment.

"They aren't bad, are they?" remarked Vane briefly. "What do you say to some tea? My devoted landlady is preparing a repast which millionaires would squander their fortunes for. Her sister happens to live in Devonshire. . . ."

"So you were expecting me?" she cried, turning round and facing him.

"I was," answered Vane.

She laughed shortly. "Well--what do you think of dyspepsia and Vichy?"

"I've been trying not to think of him ever since lunch," he answered grimly. She came slowly towards him, and suddenly Vane caught both her hands. "Joan, Joan," he cried, and his voice was a little hoa.r.s.e, "my dear, you can't. . . . You just can't. . . ."

"What great brain was it who said something really crushing about that word 'Can't?'" she said lightly.